Allure
by Meowmers
Summary: "Granger," He seethed, as if he had any right to be angry while he was covered in blood on her doorstep. "Invite me inside." Her nails dug into the polished wood of the door and she contemplated slamming it in his face. "Absolutely not." Modern Vampire AU. Tomione. Also a splash of Drarry because I needed that in my life rn.
1. Chapter 1

" **Granger," He seethed, as if he had any right to be angry while he was covered in blood on her doorstep. "Invite me inside." Her nails dug into the polished wood of the door and she contemplated slamming it in his face. "Absolutely not." Modern Vampire AU. Tomione.**

—

Hermione Granger was a logical sort.

She made decisions based on logic and facts, and every action could be cited with credible, factual, logical and often scientific sources that offered her reasons for her actions. She didn't act on impulse, she didn't believe anything until sufficiently researched, and she most certainly did not believe something when it made no logical sense. She worshiped the scientific method, adhered to the natural laws, and she certainly never considered—even for a moment—that anything she read from a reputable science textbook could ever be entirely wrong.

But her best friend Harry Potter was the complete opposite.

"It's pseudoscience, Harry," She stressed, entirely too involved in a conversation that her friend had intended to be light-hearted.

"I'm just saying we don't really know," Harry laughed.

"Of course we know!" She snapped, "Harry, it is a mathematical impossibility—Even if they only infected one person a month—"

"Yeah, yeah," He waved her off, "You've explained it to me before."

"They would have depleted their food supply in two and a half years. If vampires existed they—"

"Alright!" Harry laughed again, "Fine! Let's drop it before Draco gets here,"

Hermione rolled her eyes, setting her chin in the palm of her hand and glancing around the restaurant—far too fancy for her tastes, but beautiful nonetheless. She knew of Draco Malfoy's profession and she certainly was not interested in talking about the supernatural or the paranormal with that psycho.

"Your boyfriend is delusional," She told her friend.

"Yeah," He agreed with a lopsided smile, "Delusional enough to try to set _you_ up with someone."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She snapped, not entirely offended because she knew Harry was poking fun at her.

"Only that the last time I tried to set you up with someone, you gave him the verbal lashing of the century for—"

"For being a sexist arsehole?" She interrupted pointedly, "Besides, Ron and I became friends in the end."

Harry worried at his lower lip, glancing to the front door of the restaurant, "I have a feeling you won't like this bloke." He told her, looking very serious.

"Why?" She asked with some level of trepidation.

He didn't get the chance to respond, because suddenly he was smiling—and that expression is really the only reason Hermione put up with Draco in the first place—as his boyfriend arrived at his side, kissing him before turning his shrewd eyes on her. "Granger," He greeted with barely present civility.

"Malfoy," She returned cooly. He cast a brief, not-at-all subtle sneer at her hair—likely personally offended that she hadn't bothered to tame it regardless of their plans for the evening—and gestured with a long fingered hand to her left. She turned.

"This is Theodore Nott," He introduced, "A work colleague of mine."

And suddenly she knew exactly how this evening was going to go.

"A work colleague," She echoed, eyeing the dark haired man beside her. He was inarguably attractive—tall, slim, pale with dark hair and striking blue eyes, dressed to the nines and with hair that curled in a way that looked somehow purposeful in a way she could never manage to get her hair to look. But did he really have to be involved in the same business as Malfoy?

The same vague, secretive, _paranormal_ investigations that Malfoy was always on about?

"Hello," She greeted tightly, holding out a confident hand, "Hermione Granger,"

His lips tipped up at one side, "Lovely to meet you," He told her, his large hand enveloping her own. "I hear you are quite skeptical of our work?"

"An understatement." She deadpanned.

His smile only grew, "We won't speak of it then," He told her, finally taking a seat beside her at the table. "Let's have a pleasant evening, hm?"

She noticed both Harry and Draco watching them intently, as if this introductory conversation would set the tone for the rest of the evening. She didn't want to ruin Harry's date—even if she hated both his boyfriend and his colleague's entire enterprise—so she gave a tight lipped smile and agreed.

It wasn't. Pleasant, that was. Theodore Nott was, of course, if not mildly condescending—as if he knew something she didn't, but he wasn't going to tell her—and the restaurant was lovely, if not a bit overwhelmingly expensive.

(Theodore was insistent on paying, but Hermione was more insistent. They split the check in the end, Theo looking like he was equally annoyed and amused)

The reason for the unpleasantries happened after their meal. Harry had said they would be going to the theatre, only Hermione had assumed they would be seeing a play or a musical or even a speaker or a debate, but, of _course_ not.

Bellatrix Black—Draco's cousin—was performing. And Hermione pointedly used the phrase _performing_ because obviously everything she was doing that she claimed to be real was bullshit and Hermione wasn't going to pretend otherwise just because of the company.

Theodore, for everything she loathed about his work (because how could someone respect themselves and work for a company that investigates paranormal and supernatural occurrences) he was actually quite lovely. Even when, at multiple times during Bellatrix's circus act of a show (she was some sort of self-proclaimed medium or something equally ridiculous) Hermione would turn to Nott and hiss every scientific discrepancy she noticed. He would usually smirk, but also nod, as if he found her commentary amusing but not unfounded.

It was a pleasant change from Harry who would laugh it off, or Malfoy who would argue with her.

So really, the company was (surprisingly) fantastic. But the show…

Mostly, it just annoyed Hermione how involved the crowd was. They would ooh and ahh and scream and squeal whenever anything irrelevant happened and it was giving her a headache. All around her were enraptured faces, watching the sultry woman on stage like she was the second coming of Jesus—and maybe they believed she was, for all Hermione knew. Personally, she couldn't care if it was—it wouldn't change the fact that the show was ostentatious and silly.

So maybe she was a little bit of a killjoy, but it was only because of how serious this subject was taken by everyone else in the room. If she was watching a fictional movie it would be different—she can appreciate that not everything in life has to be based on scientific fact. What annoyed her was that this wasn't marketed as showmanship, no—this was marketed as _truth_.

"How can anyone believe this drivel?" She murmured to her date while Beatrix writhed under the effect of some 'spirit.'

"Granger, shut the hell up," A voice hissed two seats down, as Draco leaned over Harry to glare hatefully at her. "Some of us are trying to listen."

"And some of us aren't mindless trolls who believe anything they hear," She hissed back, leaning over Harry as well so that he was pressed against the back of his seat trying to stay out of it.

"Why did you bloody come if you couldn't shut up and be respectful?" He spat.

"If I had known what nonsense we were going to see I _wouldn't_ have come," She assured him, glaring spitefully at Harry for a moment because really this was entirely his fault.

"Hermione, I'm sorry, but if I _had_ told you—" Harry started, but Malfoy cut him off.

"Don't apologize," He sneered, "You have nothing to be sorry for. And you," He glared at her, "Stop being a child."

"Don't lecture me," She flatlined, before leaning down to her feet to pick up her clutch while the crowd erupted at something (probably ridiculous) and she brought herself to her feet. "I'm using the ladies room," She said, sidestepping out of the row and hurrying toward the exit doors.

It felt better just to be out of the room. She felt a bit silly, to be honest, reacting so strongly. It was hard not to when stuck in the middle of it, expected to react with the crowd when really you want to explain to them all how ridiculous it is. And yes, any emotionally stable person might be able to sit back and bear it and let it entertain you simply because it is so ridiculous, but its slightly different when the people you are _with_ are buying into it, too.

She did use the ladies room, but she didn't need to go. So she sat in the stall for a while, and then stared in the mirror and tried to tame her hair (and failed) She might've waited in the lobby for the rest of the evening, but despite Theodore's…distasteful beliefs in the supernatural, she liked him. He was handsome and mildly intelligent and not entirely horrible, and it had been a while since Hermione had dated anyone, so why not him? He was interested in her, after all.

She sighed tiredly. Dating was never her strong suit. She hated it, in fact. She hated the small talk, and the getting-to-know-you, and the awkward polite interest you had to maintain, and the rules and regulations of when to flirt and when to kiss and when to fuck and—honestly, she would prefer to skip it all and just jump straight to the sex, peppered with in-depth sociopolitical conversations and scientific discussions, and then maybe more sex.

If she had this date go her way, Theodore would agree with her that this entire performance was uninteresting, and they could sneak off to shag somewhere inconspicuous and then they could talk about something interesting—something that mattered.

But that would probably be inappropriate, and more-so to Theo, unbecoming, so she wasn't going to propose that.

When she exited the bathroom, she saw a familiar tall brunette standing in the library. It was sweet that he came after her, if not entirely unnecessary. She waited to reach him until she said anything, placing her hand on his arm, "I'm ready to suffer through the rest of this monstrosity if—oh," She stopped when he turned and she realized he most certainly was not Theodore Nott.

Theodore Nott was handsome in a way most men were—tall and broad shouldered and charming. This man, whoever he was, was handsome in a way she had never encountered before. Enchanting, even, sending even Hermione's cheeks aflame. She wasn't one to focus too much on physicality, but this man was hauntingly beautiful. Pale skin, smooth alabaster contrasting with his impossibly long, dark eyelashes and his dark hair and his sculpted eyebrows. His cheekbones were sharp, his cheeks gaunt but not unattractively so, his mouth very pale pink, and his eyes bottomless brown, and—

"I'm sorry," She choked, retrieving her hand from his arm, "I thought you were someone else."

He smiled, and if she though he was stunning before, he was shockingly so when he smiled. "No need to apologize," He said, and his voice spun like silk through the air and enveloped her in a way that made her mind go blank. Strange, because her mind never was blank. "What is your name?" He asked her.

"Hermione," She said, her heart beating wildly in her chest. He turned toward her more fully, as if he could hear it, as if he knew the state he put her in, and she felt so out of control and so strange and lost and—but he was here, and he was so painfully beautiful he was all she could think of and—

"You aren't enjoying the show?" He asked.

"I—" She started, but she had no idea what he was talking about.

"You did refer to it as a monstrosity," He reminded her, and he didn't move, he didn't touch her, but she was surprised how much she wanted him to. It wasn't unusual for her—lust—but to feel it this strongly, so severely that it impaired even her own mind, it was—it was a bit scary. Briefly, she felt reprieve from his suffocating presence. Briefly, she could think clearly enough to formulate a response.

"No, I think it's bullshit," She breathed, failing to control her raising heart. The man—she didn't know his name—took a deep breath through his nose, his chest expanding and she could touch him if she only lifted her hand—but she didn't. "Pseudoscientific and frankly offensive to the scientific community."

He chuckled, deep and sinuous, "Would you like to leave?"

His meaning was explicitly clear.

"Hermione," A new voice interrupted, and when she turned her eyes away from the intense gaze of the man in front of her, she saw Theodore standing a ways away. He looked a bit wary, nearly terrified, and she wondered why. "Come here,"

Without thinking she turned to meet the man's eyes. He wasn't looking at her at first, instead watching Theo with something akin to realization—though she didn't know what he could be realizing—until turning his gaze back on her. He smiled again. "Okay," He said, "Go on."

She did.

Theo wrapped his hand firmly around her upper arm and pulled her from the lobby, outside where the cool night air rose goosebumps on her skin, and the further away she walked from that mystery man, the more the fog in her head cleared until she was furiously and anxiously confused.

"Who was that?" She demanded, and Theo shook his head.

"I don't—"

"What the hell was that? I couldn't even say no—he could've told me to do anything and I—I looked to him for _permission_ , what the hell—"

"Hermione," Nott soothed, his hands falling on her shoulders and his blue eyes staring beseechingly into hers. "I think you just _liked_ the bloke, it's not—"

She slapped his hands away. "Don't patronize me," She snapped. His mouth set in a grim line. "You know something—you looked terrified when you found me with him. Tell me now!"

"I know his name is Tom Riddle," He deflected, and in a fit of rage, she took his lapels in her fists and pushed him against the wall.

"I don't give a damn about his name!" She snapped.

"If I told you," He soothed, "You wouldn't believe me. Trust me."

She hesitated, not liking where this conversation was going. "Tell me anyway." She demanded.

"He's…he's just _persuasive._ " He said.

She paused, her hands uncurling from his lapels as she took a step away. She stared at him with barely concealed contempt. She didn't say anything, just stared at him like he had lost his mind—and he must've if he truly believed she would accept that there was nothing out of the ordinary about him.

"He's my colleague, of sorts," He said irritably, as if he didn't like that fact at all, "He won't harm you if he knows you're—"

"Why are we here?" She asked him, "We're not here on a date, are we?"

"No," He sighed, "Draco and I—well, Draco's on a date, too, I reckon—but ultimately we're here to speak to Bellatrix about—about a lead."

"A lead on what?"

"A lead on a case." She glared viciously at him and didn't back down until he sighed and clarified. "A lead on a…a target."

"A target" She repeated, "Meaning…?"

"Just…" He swallowed, "Someone we need to hunt down."

She knew where this was going and she didn't like it one bit. "And you hunt…?"

"Dangerous things." He answered vaguely, as if she didn't already know what he thought he hunted, as if Harry hadn't tried to convince her numerous times that his boyfriend wasn't clinically insane.

He was still leaned against the wall—pressed against it, really, like he didn't see the point in moving in case she just slammed him again. She wouldn't. In fact, all she really wanted to do now was go back to her flat, make some coffee, read until sunrise, and then go to sleep. She didn't want to be dealing with the insanity of Nott and Draco's apparent profession—which appeared to be professional insanity.

But she thought of that man—Tom?—the way she felt in his presence, like she would have done anything he wanted her to and she would have done it happily, readily. He could have sliced her open and she would have thanked him. How could he make her feel that way? He hadn't even touched her.

"He could be releasing pheromones," She voiced out loud. Theo looked awfully confused. "But…super-effective pheromones. If I could find a way to counteract them, somehow, then—"

"What are you—?"

"Block them, or numb myself to them, or even—what if I could distract the source—?"

"Hermione!" He interrupted.

"What?" She snapped. He was watching her closely, his eyes filled with concern, looking at her as if she was losing her mind. She stopped rambling. "Sorry," She apologized without really meaning it, "Should we get this not-date over with then?"

"Hermione," He said tiredly, "I—"

"No," She interrupted, "Believe me, I am not interested in dating a man who genuinely believes that he fights ghosts, yeah? So let's just—get this over with and—go home."

"Draco's handling it." He assured her, "We could—just—wait out here?"

She huffed tiredly and nodded.

They didn't speak much for the rest of the night.

(They didn't speak much after that at all)

—

Hermione wasn't obsessive.

She really wasn't.

It's just that this mysterious Tom Riddle was a scientific phenomenon—someone who could actually impair your judgement by the release of what she assumed to be pheromones—and she wanted to figure out _how_. How he did it, how it affected her, how she could either block or misdirect the effects—she wanted to know _everything_.

It was unlikely she could block the pheromones—not if she didn't have access to him—but what if she could distract the source? Pheromones were released primarily to attract a mate, right? (although she didn't know this Mr. Riddle well enough to say if that was the purpose of his use of them, he could have just been trying to kill her) What if she could mimic his use of pheromones to distract the source and—

No. That wouldn't stop the pheromones, but if his mind couldn't focus it would be likely that his sway over her would at least be lessened. Would she have any sway over him, or would they both just be sent into some strange, never-ending, lust-filled stupor? This was assuming that he had control over his…manipulations, but given the way Theo didn't seem swayed at all in his presence told her there must be some sort of selection process.

So she researched and studied and tested.

"You spend too much time cooped up in your flat," Harry told her one day when he dragged her out to coffee. She was distracted and twitchy and every few minutes she would open up her journal to jot something down before turning half her attention back on him.

"Yeah," She agreed, because it was true. She knew it was. It's just that she had so much to _do_.

"What about you and Nott?" He prompted, "You seemed to get along."

She rolled her eyes. "Your boyfriend and his friend are out of their damn minds, Harry." She explained.

"Hermione, you—"

"I know, I know!" She stressed, "'I don't understand.' But I do understand! You've told me what they think they do, Harry" She reminded him. "And its insane!"

"Insane?" He said, "Hermione, they—they hunt monsters—They protect—"

"For fucks sake," She muttered.

"How could they lie about—?"

"I don't want to talk about this!" She snapped, "I just want to drop the subject."

"Fine," He agreed, not wanting to fight with her. "What are you researching?" He asked as a way to change the subject. She worried her lower lip.

"I…" She paused, "I don't want to talk about that either."

He took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her carefully. "You're okay, aren't you?" He asked.

She thought of Theo and Malfoy, she thought of Tom Riddle from the lobby, she thought of her scrawled notes and research and the dangerous chemicals and syringes in her flat. "When I figure this out, I will be." She assured him.

He sighed, his lips quirking into a smile as he said, "You're dying to get back to your cave, aren't you?"

She barely smiled, "Yes," She agreed.

"Go," He said melodramatically, "Leave your best—and only—friend all alone and—"

She laughed, gathering her things, and she said, "Oh, call your boyfriend!"

—

Hermione always loathed animal testing.

She understood why people did it—they didn't have to pay for the aftercare if an experiment went wrong, and if they died, well, they certainly wouldn't get sued. Humans were more complicated to test on because of all the legal procedures that came with it.

But she hated it all the same.

So, because of that, she had a long and somewhat reckless history of doing experiments on herself.

They were always thoroughly researched to the point of near insanity, checking and double checking every single possible outcome and preparing for any unfortunate consequences. She wasn't foolish in regards to self-testing, but she couldn't be entirely safe either. How would she receive any answers if she was?

Still, dosing herself with altered pheromones straight into her bloodstream was possibly a stupid idea.

The things she sacrificed for scientific exploration.

It was possible they would do nothing—sit in her blood stream and make her sick or possibly even work as a stimulant or hallucinogen and then at least she would have the experience of being high—although, possibly also a drug addiction to face depending on how addictive the qualities of these pheromones were.

But ideally—if they took to her blood and multiplied and overstimulated her own production of pheromones within her own body—the effect would be something similar to Riddle's…abilities.

She wondered if she could control people like he did. She didn't particularly want to—she'd rather they listen because they _want_ to—but it wouldn't be the worst side-effect to deal with while she figured out how to reverse it. Or would old men just salivate over her while still refusing to do anything she said?

That would be slightly more annoying.

So here she was, sat on her bathroom sink with her pants off and her legs spread and a needle pressed against the inside of her thigh—because the closer to the most recognized source of pheromones the better—contemplating if this might be a very, very stupid decision.

She did it anyway.

She didn't feel anything. Even two, three hours later, she still didn't feel anything except a bit tired—but it was two o'clock in the morning so that wasn't entirely unusual. She expected some sort of reaction—she had engineered it to overproduce her pheromones so at the very least she should be having extra secretions or body odor, but—nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

So she waited—because maybe the effects just couldn't be felt by her and they could only be felt by someone else?—and she dragged herself to her research job at the local university fueled by no sleep and five cups of coffee. Then she purposely tracked down the only person who she knew she could count on to hate her at all times of the day no matter the circumstances—and no, it wasn't Malfoy, it was Severus Snape.

It was a bit embarrassing really, because she was acting like a half-crazed lunatic and he was still staring at her like she was the scum of the earth and—why hadn't it _done_ anything?

So she grabbed an empty classroom and locked the door—and slid a chair up against it—and arranged herself in the corner to test even more because _something_ had gone wrong and she didn't know _what_.

Her pheromones were exactly the same, which didn't make any sense. She had literally injected herself less than 10 hours ago, so—how could they be entirely unaffected? At the very least she should be able to see traces of the foreign pheromones but there was nothing!

Nothing!

She cast an eye to the door, waiting for a moment, before inevitably deciding that the worst that could happen is someone would try to get in and she could quickly right herself before answering the door, so she stood and pulled her jeans off. Reaching for a scalpel, she sat on the desk and made a careful incision on her inner thigh, collecting the blood and pulling the microscope closer to examine the sample.

As it turns out, they had taken to her blood. "How strange," She murmured, settling the microscope on her knees. That was certainly not what she expected to happen, but then she supposed that would explain why there was no tangible effect—people couldn't smell her blood like they would be able to smell her sweat or natural secretions.

But it wasn't as if she could just start slicing herself open and bleeding all over random men in order to test the effects.

They had multiplied, she realized, balancing the microscope on her knees and resting her feet on her chair as she examined the sample. Far more than she had truly expected—and in her blood, too. She had expected them to find their way to her natural pheromones and latch onto those, but instead they latched onto the first thing they found. She hoped it didn't have any unsightly consequences, but she felt fine so far, and they didn't seem to be inhibiting anything. Merely accompanying.

How _strange_.

There was a jerk at the door as someone tried to open it and—to her dismay—she heard Snape's voice drawl, "What on earth…?"

She snapped up from the table, nearly dropping the microscope that cost more than her life's wages, pulling her jeans frantically back on—which was very difficult, one required time to get a pair of skinny jeans on—and haphazardly wiped the blood off the table. She rushed toward the door, kicking the chair to the side and pulling the door open. Snape scowled at her.

"I was just leaving," She told him, turning to hurry back to the desk she had situated herself at and tidying everything up. She noticed a streak of blood still on the table and discretely wiped it off. "Didn't mean to steal your classroom," She picked up her jacket.

"Are you bleeding?"

Shit, she thought, looking down to see the bright red blooming across her inner thigh. She hadn't realized she had bled that much. "Um, yes," She said, turning around and throwing her coat on and buttoning it up to hide the blooming stain on her trousers. "Period, you know."

He looked positively mortified.

She walked past him to leave, but stopped, remembering the blood sample still placed in the microscope and hurried back to retrieve it. She didn't need it—she could get more of her blood just by taking off these jeans—but she didn't want anyone else to have it.

Snape, for his part, was being exceptionally quiet. Which wasn't altogether unusual, but one would think he would have made some cutting remark by now, especially to her. She examined him where he stood at his desk—because of course she had to pick _his_ chemistry classroom—and he kept his eyes firmly trained on the wood.

Of course, she realized. She was _bleeding_. She was—

"Professor Snape?" She called, stepping just a hair closer so she could get a better look at his eyes when they snapped up to meet hers. He didn't say anything, didn't even look at her like she was anything other than know-it-all Granger, but—his pupils were dilated. And his breathing was…haggard.

She smiled brilliantly. "Never mind," She said and practically pranced from the room.

She truly adored being right.

—

Her plan to continue her experimentation were destroyed when she walked into her apartment and saw Harry lounging on her couch.

The last thing she needed Harry to know was that she had been dangerously experimenting on herself to equate her abilities to a mysterious man she met on their last date-night—the man who Theo was terrified of her associating with.

"Harry," She choked, and he grinned at her.

"You've been hiding for too long, Mione!" He bellowed.

"Let me just," She muttered, gesturing vaguely to the bedroom, "One second."

She stripped off her jeans, finding that the incision was scabbed over and mostly healed anyway, but still bandaging it about seven times before throwing on a pair of sweats and reentering the living room. She wasn't sure how the pheromones would effect someone not normal sexually attracted to her gender, but she didn't want to find out.

He was playing with a syringe when she re-emerged. "What the bloody hell is this for?" He scoffed. She snatched it from his hands and placed it on the kitchen counter.

"Nothing," She said, "Experiments. Tea?"

"Actually," Harry drawled, sounding a bit too much like Malfoy for a moment, "No tea. We're going out."

"Dragging me out for coffee again?" She asked.

"Nope!" He stood up from the couch, disappearing into her bedroom as she hurried after him, "Were going out to dinner. You, me, Draco, and Theodore."

She groaned.

"So I'm the fake date again?" She muttered while Harry pulled out a dress, "Ugh, Harry that's hideous, just let me pick one. You have the fashion sense of a mule."

He laughed loudly, "Fake date?" He asked, "But Theo liked you."

"Harry, don't patronize me, please," She sighed, "I'll go on this ridiculous date but please don't make me pretend its anything other than a cover for their job—whatever it is."

He watched her for a thoughtful moment, "What happened with you two?"

"What?" She asked.

"You were getting along fine," He pointed out, "Great, even. Then you leave and he goes after you and suddenly you're locking yourself in your flat—which isn't altogether unusual, but you won't even tell me _why_ , which _is_." She had stopped rummaging through her closet as he spoke, but she didn't dare turn to face him. "What's going on? Did he do something?"

"No," She answered honestly, remembering that he had likely saved her from what might've been a terribly dangerous situation with Tom Riddle—and suddenly the thought of _him_ sent her into a mild panic, "Will we be…going to the same place?" She asked tentatively.

"No," He answered, "We're going to dinner."

"But will we…are we—"

"We're not going to the theatre," He assured her, "We're not going to anything like it, actually. No supernatural performances or anything of the like. Just…an average dinner."

She nodded, momentarily appeased. "Alright," She agreed, "Get out so I can change."

She had a bad feeling about tonight.

—

Her bad feeling turned out to be entirely correct—if she believed in any sort of paranormal ideology she might be convinced she was psychic.

Dinner was bearable—Theo was civil and kind and he seemed oddly content with pretending that her altercation with a man who could tell her to do anything and she would obey—he seemed content to pretend it never happened. Which, actually, was slightly infuriating, but arguably appropriate for the situation.

She was almost certain that Harry had somehow—probably accidentally—relayed how hesitant Hermione was to come in the first place, because Malfoy jumped at every opportunity to make some scathing remark. Usually about what a hermit she is, or if she's been living under a rock, or 'Jesus, Granger, you look like you haven't seen the sun in weeks.' All references to the fact that she would rather be locked in her home that seated at the dinner he was paying for—which was absolutely true so she didn't feel offended.

Harry was interestedly chiming in to Theo and Draco's conversations—all very vague and strange and she was certain they were discussing their "work," and she figured that, at the very least, if Harry was having fun then the dinner wasn't completely terrible.

So, Dinner was bearable.

And then a familiar face entered the establishment—with another familiar face to make the situation even worse. Tom Riddle and Bellatrix Black.

"Fuck," Nott muttered, casting her a quick, nervous glance. It was the first time she had heard him swear.

"What?" Malfoy asked, not turning around to check and instead watching Nott's expression carefully.

"Riddle's here,"

"Shit," Malfoy swore as well—though she had heard him swear plenty of times, so this was not unusual—and shifted in his seat, placing a hand on the back of Harry's chair and glancing back as subtly as he could. "Bloody hell."

"Hermione, fancy a cigarette?" Theo asked pointedly, gesturing for her to stand. She glared harshly at him.

"I don't smoke," She spat, knowing that he was only trying to get her out of the room. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to know what was going on. "What does it matter if he's here? He was here at the theatre, too."

"What?" Draco seethed, glaring at Theodore as well, "You met him at the theatre?"

"Yes?" She answered, confused as to why that would cause such a fuss, "We spoke. He asked me to leave with him and Theo intervened." She left out the part where she couldn't say no.

"He what?" Harry choked on his wine, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it wasn't important," She said, "Or…not…I mean he wasn't—I mean _I_ wasn't, er—"

"Hermione," Harry intoned, picking up on her nervous energy and knowing her too well to brush it off as anything other than a secret, "What did you do?"

"Nothing," She snapped, feeling so defensive only because Malfoy and Theo were present.

"Hermione," Theo called softly from her side, "Has he contacted you, or?"

"Why would he contact me?" She asked, glancing over to his table and examining him and his date. Bellatrix was all sultry smiles and grand gestures as she spoke to the waiter. Riddle seemed…tense. His fingers wrapped around the edge of the table so hard she feared it might snap under the pressure, his shoulders were hunched. He was turned away from her so she couldn't see his expression, but his body language made it seem like he was under attack. "All that happened is we spoke briefly, he asked me to leave with him, and Theo interrupted, and then he backed down." She explained, keeping her eye on him.

"Why the bloody hell didn't you bring this up, Nott?" Draco barked, keeping his voice quiet even though Riddle was all the way across the restaurant.

"I thought—I thought it was unimportant. She's right, he backed down, I figured he was just having a bit of fun—"

"A bit of fun?" Harry scoffed, "Hermione could have ben a 'bit of fun' then?"

"I stopped it, didn't I?" Theo said cuttingly.

"Who's to say he didn't just go kill someone else?"

"Oh, bloody—do you tell him everything, then, Malfoy?"

"Alright," Hermione interrupted, "What the hell are we talking about? Kill someone? He's a murderer?" She turned angry eyes on Nott, "You said he was a 'colleague, of sorts,'"

Malfoy barked a sarcastic laugh while Nott leaned closer to Hermione in what she was sure was supposed to be comforting. It wasn't. "It's complicated, love—"

"Don't call me love," She snapped.

"Point is, he's dangerous," Malfoy said, "And if your hiding something—"

"I know he's dangerous," She snapped, "I experienced it first hand!"

Malfoy went deathly pale—which was a surprise, because she thought he was pale enough before—and stuttered a jagged, "You—you mean that he—and—?"

"Yes," She confirmed, "We spoke in the lobby and I know how…how much control he has—" Malfoy looked oddly relieved for a second, like he had expected something worse, "—but it's alright. I figured it out."

It was very quiet for a beat. "What do you mean…figured it out?" Harry asked.

"I duplicated it." She explained, feeling a bit vindicated because they were including her in the conversation now, "It's not exactly the same as…whatever he has—"

"You duplicated vampirism?" Harry said very, very quietly. Hermione paused and stared at him like he was insane.

"No," She sneered, "No—what? For heavens sake—no. I duplicated the pheromones."

"Shit," Theo swore—again—remembering her half-crazed mutterings the day they first met, "Hermione, love—"

"Don't," She snapped again, "Call me love." Her eyes jumped from one occupant of the table to the next, bring to catch all their reactions as she spoke, "It works. It's not exactly the same, because its not where pheromones usually are, I accidentally linked it to my blood—"

"To your blood?" Harry squeaked, while Malfoy went pale once more and buried his face in his hands. Nott stared at her like she was the one who lost her mind.

"Hermione, it's time for you to go." He told her, gathering her purse and thrusting it into her hands, sliding his coat back on his shoulders where he sat.

"No," She refused, "No, what is going on? This is a good thing—Sure, blood isn't the most convenient, but I still know it works, and if he's distracted its possible that he won't be able to sway me—like how he didn't sway you because he was uninterested in you—he can control them, but if I can distract his control—"

"The last thing you want," Theo breathed, "Is for Tom Riddle to be interested in you. Trust me."

"That's not what I mean," She defended, "I just mean for the purpose of keeping out of the influence of his own—"

"Hermione, let's just leave, love, please—"

"Stop calling me love," She snapped, "I'm not your love—"

"If this really does work in your blood, then you're in more danger than—"

"I'm not in any danger if you all just calm down and stop drawing attention—"

"I promise I'll explain everything, love, if you—"

She slammed her hand down on the table, rattling the glasses of wine and the silverware, "Call me love one more time!" She threatened, glaring up at him as he half stood beside her.

"He's looking over here." Harry breathed.

He was—but then so were many people. He had turned, only slightly, in his seat and both he and his date had their eyes fixed on their little group. She—Bellatrix—murmured something to him but he didn't reply. Fascinatingly enough, she found that his eyes settled firmly on her, with a strange expression on his face—he wasn't amused or annoyed or even thoughtful—and it was difficult to tell from the distance between them but she thought he almost looked—furious. Not the kind of fury that twisted the features and was made of ugly snarls, but a resigned sort of fury. The kind that you feel when you have to hold yourself back, to detach yourself form a situation.

It was an expression that, if leveled on Nott or Malfoy or even Harry—who all seemed to know him—would be natural. But it was solely fixed on _her_.

Did he remember her? She wondered. He might've, but it was unlikely given how short their interaction was. So why, then, did he stare at her as if he wanted to tear her apart?

Strangely, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath that rattled his shoulders.

"Hermione," Theo said at her side, puling her attention away from the strange man, "I think—"

"She'll be fine," Malfoy assured them, "He has Bella. You know she'll let him do anything to her—"

"Do you see the way he's looking at—" Nott began, but Malfoy cut him off.

"We can't just leave, Nott." He seethed, "Not tonight. This is our last lead before—" He cut himself off, both of them—and Harry—looking very solemn.

Hermione was fed up with always being out of the loop. "Before what?" She asked. She was met with silence, "Before what?" She pressed.

"The full moon." Harry told her.

"So," She sighed, rubbing her temples, "What, a werewolf? You're after a werewolf?"

"Keep your fucking voice down, Granger—"

"And this—this— _werewolf_ —it kills people, then?"

"By nature of a werewolf," Theo murmured, "Yes,"

"Alright—fine—" She acquiesced, her anger and frustration driving her forward, "But—now, if I were a werewolf, and I knew that hunters existed, and I knew that they would search for me and kill me—"

"Granger, don't pretend you know anything—" Malfoy started, but she barreled through.

"Then I certainly would not place myself in a goddamn restaurant this close to the full moon so that I can go on a killing rampage and make the national fucking news." The table was very quiet. "I would quietly sneak off to a forest somewhere or lock myself in the basement and hope to _god_ no one hears me."

"We have a source," Malfoy told her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Well, I think you should question whether this source really wants you to find this person, or if they're hiding them."

"No," Harry denied, "They're not. We can trust them, they wouldn't lie—"

"I'm just saying," She snapped, "That it doesn't make any _sense_."

"I thought you didn't believe in this," Malfoy snapped.

"I don't," She assured him, "But that doesn't mean I can't apply logic to even illogical situations. Now, I am desperately tired of withstanding your company, so if we're done here—" And so, fueled by the annoyance of being surrounded by lunatics, and reacting under the heated stare of the man from across the restaurant, she gathered her purse and pulled herself to her feet and marched out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.

She hid in the alleyway that lead to the back entrance of the restaurant in case Theo or Harry or—god forbid—Malfoy came looking for her. She was just sick and tired of being made to feel like she knew less simply because she refused to believe that monsters and ghosts and paranormal pseudoscience was an actual thing in the real world.

It was illogical. And ridiculous. And, frankly, embarrassing that they believed in it.

It was unusual—and certainly unsettling—that Tom Riddle had appeared again. It had been strange the first time they met—because of his ability to manipulate her—but that fear had been muffled by the knowledge that he worked with Theo, at least somewhat. And by the knowledge that he hadn't really _done_ anything to her.

But now, of course, he wasn't a colleague so much as he was a murderer—or both. And there was something unsettling in the way he looked at her in there—not like in the lobby, where he was charming and flippant and seemed to be pursuing her simply because she was _there_ , and she was _willing_ , and not at all because he had any vested interest in her. This time it was different, he watched her like…like she should somehow know _why_ he's watching her. He looked at her like something was her fault.

But she hadn't done anything!

She remembered vividly—but with some kind of disconnect—how it felt to be overwhelmed by him in that lobby. It was disconcerting to think that she would have done anything he asked her to. If Theo hadn't stepped in…well, even if Theodore pissed her off in every other aspect, she had to at least respect the fact that he saved her from making some very uncharacteristic decisions.

But then, she had gone on to make some—just as poor—very _characteristic_ decisions, but she couldn't expect anyone to save her from herself.

Tom Riddle was dangerous, apparently. Well, definitely, considering what she knew he could do (what she could now do, too, if not with a bit more difficulty) But more dangerous than she originally thought if he was a murderer. But then, Malfoy and Theo were starting to sound more and more like murderers, too. Harry called them hunters, sometimes, and she had always taken it to be like the ghostbusters or that annoying man on television who locks himself in buildings at night and screams about spirits. But they were talking about werewolves today—about a lead who told them where the werewolf would be, and she thought…

What would they had done if they had found them?

Would they have killed them? Him or her or them, whoever they are? And would they have deserved it, whoever they are? Or would they have simply been another victim to whatever deranged business Malfoy and Nott were a part of?

And now, one that Harry seemed to be a part of, too.

She was beginning to wonder if her friends were really any less dangerous than the man who looked at her like he wanted to rip her to shreds.

"Granger—" She had been so lost in her thoughts in the quiet of that alleyway that she didn't even process that the voice was familiar before throwing her fist straight into their face. She realized a moment too late that, not only did she know this man, but it was Draco Malfoy, and he most certainly would not let her hear the end of this.

"Shit, Granger," He moaned, "What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"You snuck up on me!" She defended herself, "In an alleyway at dusk—you can't blame me for—"

"I certainly _can_ blame you!" He spat, pulling his hand away from his nose. He was appeased to see there was no blood, at least. He glared furiously at her, "Riddle left not long after you. Left Bella behind. Harry is asking to see what his deal was."

"Shouldn't you be asking?" She questioned, "Seeing as she's your cousin?"

"She likes Harry better than me," He admitted.

"So does everyone," She snarked. He glowered at her.

"Come on. We'll find Nott and get Harry and take you home."

"What?" She squawked, "You're acting as if this Riddle character is out to get me and you're just going to drop me off at home like nothing's wrong?"

"Trust me," he laughed bitterly, "Home is the only place you're safe."

"That doesn't make any sense," She argued. He rolled his eyes.

"Just bloody come on and stop fucking complaining." He griped, turning to walk out of the alley and expecting her to follow. "And we need to sort this—pheromone thing."

"It's unimportant," She lied, considering the fact that Malfoy and Nott may be keen to undo everything she had done. "It's inconclusive. I don't think I've really—"

"Shut up, Granger," He groaned, "You're a terrible liar."

"It's the truth," She insisted, "I wanted to test it out today but you were all so upset that I—"

"Whatever," He muttered as they paused at the entrance of the restaurant. Nott was there, as well, looking relieved to see her in one piece. He didn't say anything, though. Draco spotted Harry inside and walked briskly indoors to collect him.

"You're probably right about the werewolf." Nott said, as if he was attempting to communicate some sort of truce with her. His words felt like more of an attack—a reminder of everything she was thinking in that alleyway, and she suddenly wished she had kept her big mouth shut.

"I'm probably right about a lot of things," She said, "But one thing I know nothing about is werewolves."

"Still," He shrugged.

She hesitated, weighing the consequences of her next words, before asking, "Assuming I believe anything you say is true—if you found this werewolf, would you kill them?"

Nott looked a bit confused, like he didn't understand why she even thought to ask. "Of course," He assured her, "It won't hurt anyone else."

She didn't like that answer, but she didn't say so. She nodded, her mouth shut tight, wrapping her arms around herself and waiting for Malfoy to reemerge with Harry.

They did as they said—dropped her off at home, walked her to the door of her flat, and made certain she stepped through the doorway before telling her she would be safe and Tom Riddle wouldn't be able to hurt her here.

It seemed like a ridiculous sentiment for two reasons. One, she was certain that a man who could control people with his presence alone would have no trouble getting into her flat, and two…

Well, she wasn't sure if he was the only one she should be afraid of, anymore.

—

 **Okay so first thing I want to say is at some point this autocorrected Theo to Taco and I almost didn't catch it so hahahahhahahahahahahah thats just so funny to me for some reason can you imagine reading this and all of a sudden "Taco" is speaking to someone like oh my go d**

 **Anyway what is this? ? ? ? What am I doing? ? ? ? Who knows? ? ? ? I certainly dont? ? ? ? How long is this going to be? ? ? ? I have no idea? ? ? At least three chapters? ? ? ? But we all know how bad I am at guessing story lengths? ? ?**

 **IDK guys I always have little like…nugget ideas and then as soon as I start writing they turn into these MASSIVE CONVOLUTED PLOTLINES and idk guys thats why there was no Tom Riddle here at least….almost none because literally I'm already at 8000 words and like…i can't cram in much more into this chapter its already a shit show but NEXT CHAPTER ohhhhhhhohohohohohoh ohhh boy next chapter NEXT CHAPTER BOY**

 **he will be present next chapter, is my point.**

 **Let me know what you think? ? ? Please? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Review? ? ? Let me know if you are literally at all interested in reading any more of this? ? ? ? Is this a flip or a flop? (what does that mean me ur making no sense go to bed)**


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione hadn't spoken to Harry in a week. Or anyone, for that matter. Even at work—which mostly consisted of researching or assisting with lectures when necessary—The only person she would speak to there was Snape. But then lately he was avoiding her like the plague, so—she hadn't spoken to anyone in a week.

She didn't like to think of herself as closed minded—she didn't think she _was_ being closed minded. Before she met Malfoy she had never met anyone who believed in the supernatural to the extent that he did. Harry had, for a time, as a child—but he had grown up and grown out of it until he met Malfoy and then it was all back. Most ordinary people either disregarded it—like she did—or if they did believe in it they certainly didn't believe that it was their responsibility to hunt down monsters.

Had they ever even caught a monster? She very much doubted it, as both times she had gone out with them to hunt one down, there had been nothing.

So she wasn't _trying_ to be closed minded but—how could she be expected to just take their word on it and believe—oh, absolutely, if you two say it then it must be true, regardless of the fact that everyone else in the world has _no idea_ what you're talking about.

She just hated feeling like she was missing something—but she had to be, right? They couldn't all just be crazy—and she knew there was some strange powers, like in Riddle, but—supernatural? Did it have to be _that?_

So she did what she often did when she felt overwhelmed—she didn't speak to anyone. This was probably the reason she didn't have many friends in the first place.

But she couldn't hide for long—she never could from Harry.

It was early in the morning when he swung by, pounding on her door incessantly until she answered so she couldn't ignore him. She swung open the door while he was mid-pound, still in her pajamas with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She didn't think she really had the right to scowl at him after avoiding him for days so she didn't.

"You haven't answered your phone." He said pointedly. She sighed, stepping away from the door and throwing herself on the couch as he walked in. "What is wrong with you?" He asked.

"Nothing," She said, petulantly refusing to face her actions. She tucker her feet underneath her, curled up agains the arm of the sofa. He sat on the other end, looking very frustrated with her.

"Look, I…" He hesitated, looking as if he was trying to remember something. She wondered if he rehearsed this speech before he came. "Look, I get that you're scientific or whatever, you don't believe in anything you can't see—I get that. I don't expect you to always understand…any of what I…anything. But I just—" His hands made vague gestures in front of him, like he was trying to grasp at the words that wouldn't form for him. "I'm not crazy, Hermione."

"I don't think you're crazy," She murmured.

"Yes, you do," He pressed, "You think that me and Malfoy and Nott—you think we're all insane. That's why you're avoiding me because you think I belong in a crazy house—"

"I don't think that!" She insisted, "It's just that we've been through this before, Harry—"

His leg was jumping up and down in front of him, like he was itching to stand but wouldn't let himself. "No, we haven't." He said.

"Yes we have!" She repeated, "Harry, you went through this as a child—"

"You have no idea what I—"

"Ever since you met Malfoy you've been reverting back to old habits—"

"You have _no_ idea what Malfoy's done for me!" He snapped, finally bringing himself to his feet. She didn't move from her place on the couch. "I know you think he's crazy Hermione but the fact is—" His voice became very quiet all of a sudden when he said, "He's the only one who makes me feel sane."

Her heart broke for him a little bit. Harry's sanity—while not always in question—had always been teetering on the edge. Most of the time he was just as sane as anyone else but there was a history of this obsession with monsters and ghouls and—it started when he was seven, when his parents were killed in front of him. That kind of trauma can send anyone on a desperate quest to explain the monstrosity they saw. She didn't blame him, but…

"Harry," she started gently, "That's not—"

"Everyone thinks I'm crazy but him," He said imploringly, like he wanted her to believe too, but— "He believes me, Hermione, he believes—"

"Harry, what happened to you was traumatic, you—"

"Even _you_ don't believe me!" He cried, "You're my best friend how could _you_ of all people think I'm insane?"

"Harry," She said lowly, "We met in _therapy_."

He clenched his jaw, the atmosphere in the room suddenly going very chilly, and she realized she had said completely the wrong thing. "So you'll always see me as a lunatic then?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"But that's what you said—"

"I was—I was joking, I—"

"Well I'm not bloody well joking, am I?" He threw his arms up in the air before running a hand through his hair. She hadn't meant to make him angry—she hadn't meant to make him feel like she thought he was crazy, but—well, the things he said often _were_ crazy. And they _had_ met in therapy, their entire friendship was rooted in meeting through a mutual therapist, she—

He didn't say anything else, and neither did she, but that was only because she was too lost in her own thoughts that she couldn't think of anything to verbalize. He stormed out, only offering a "Never mind, forget it," As he left and she felt so _awful._

She was a terrible friend. She thought her tendency to hide was why she had no friends, but she was wrong. She had no friends because she was horrible to them.

She _didn't_ think he was crazy. Well, she _did,_ a bit, but…Well, he didn't _seem_ crazy to her. He was her best friend, through everything, and she—well, of course she would support him through everything. But through hunting down vampires—seeking some sort of retribution from the vampire that he _believed_ killed his family?

It was crazy, it was something he had gone through years of therapy to get past, and now…

She pulled her blanket up over her head, cocooning herself so she didn't have to see her living room and remember Harry's crestfallen face when she hadn't reassured him that she didn't think he was crazy—a bit mislead, perhaps, but not crazy. And she trusted him, she _did,_ but…

Her mind was spinning, whirling, careening around the room and she couldn't grab a hold of it. There were so any buts, so many howevers, so many ifs, ands, ors, so many contradictions and—Harry wasn't crazy. But he had to be, if he was wrong, right? If he truly believed in something that was so unfounded, then he would have to be.

But, what if he was right?

The thought made her brain hurt—because there were so many reasons why he shouldn't be right. There were so many scientific and even sociological reasons why none of this should be reality, but…

She never believed she owed it to scientific exploration to investigate the paranormal. It was too outrageous. But…perhaps she owed it to her friend?

Maybe she owes it to Harry to give this all—at the very least—a second thought.

So she starts small. She starts by calling Theodore Nott.

—

They went out for coffee—which was weird, because she had never gone out for coffee with anyone but Harry and once with Ron.

"I have to admit," Theo said as soon as he sat down, eyeing her skeptically, "I was pretty surprised when you called."

"Yeah," she said, wringing her hands in front of her before setting them around the mug of her coffee so she would stop fidgeting. It burned her hands but she kept them there. "I actually wanted to talk about…your work."

She thought he might be annoyed that she didn't intend for this to be a date at all, but he only smiled, like he had already known and was relieved that she wasn't going to keep up some charade. "Ah," He said, "Not a coffee date, then?"

"Sorry," She said, and she kind of was.

"I've taken you on two bogus dates so far," He reminded her, "So you have nothing to be sorry for." He paused. "What did you want to ask?"

"I don't think Harry's crazy," She said, forcing the words quickly out of her mouth, "But I don't understand…any of this, and I—I hate not understanding something."

"It's a common reaction of mankind," He told her, soothingly, like he had said all this before—she couldn't be surprised if he had. Was part of the job description to deal with distraught civilians who found out a bit too much? "Something terrifying or out of their control—if it can be ignored, or hidden away, then it will be. It's easier to pretend something doesn't exist than to face a danger you can't protect yourself against."

"But how could so many people not know if they've been around for years?" She asked.

"Well, it's not as if the supernatural population rivals that of the human race," He answered simply, "They are a minority—but a powerful one, and often immortal."

"And you hunt them?" She clarified. He nodded, so she also asked, "What do you hunt?"

"Anything," He said vaguely, and at her exhausted glare he went on, "Werewolves, Vampires, sometimes ghosts, demons, shape-shifters—"

"They—they all exist?" She asked unbelievingly. He nodded solemnly. "And you…you're hunting a werewolf right now." He nodded again. "Did you find them?" She asked.

He sighed heavily, "No," he answered, "We haven't found it. Our source is—"

"Harry knows the source, doesn't he?" She interrupted, and at his confused expression, she clarified, "He was very upset when I said that the source might be lying. I figured he must know him."

"It's his godfather," He said. She knew Harry's godfather—she had gone with Harry to meet him when he was first let out of prison after being exonerated.

How could _everyone_ she knows be involved with this and she is only _just_ now starting to question anything?

"And what about…" She hesitated, "What about Riddle?" Nott looked very uncomfortable then. "Why are you so afraid of him if he works with you?"

"It's more complicated than that…" He started hesitantly, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing, "He's…he's an invaluable source, but he's a bit off the rails, sometimes. Granted, he prides himself on his self control, how he's more controlled than most of his kind—"

"His kind?" Hermione asked, "I'm assuming you mean something more than just murderers."

"Vampires," He told her. She couldn't help her knee jerk reaction of snorting.

"Vampires don't—" She stopped herself, reminding herself to be open-minded. "How can vampires exist?"

He seemed a bit confused by the question, like he had never considered the how or the why, only knew that they simply did. "I don't know," He admitted, "They've just been around…for about as long as humans, I think."

"But how?" She pressed, "They would run out of humans to feed on." Nott looked very confused. "Every time they bite someone—"

Something like realization dawned on his face and he laughed a little, "It's not the bite that turns you, love." He informed her. "It's a…ritual, or something, I haven't done my research—though I'm sure you will."

She rubbed at her eyes tiredly. Of course the answer was as simple as 'every bite does not equal a new vampire.' Why had she never considered that? Why had she never considered that perhaps these things could exist, but not within the common understanding within society?

She supposed Theo was right—it was easier to assume they didn't exist. It was simpler that way. And with what she knew about what Harry went through—it was easier to assume it was some random asshole who was probably dead now and burning in hell, but—if it was a vampire, it all becomes so much more…

Terrifying.

"So," She said, her hands still over her eyes, "Riddle is a vampire, but you hunt vampires, so—"

"He made a deal of sorts with Dumbledore," He said, and at her expression, added, "Our boss. Dumbledore. Riddle helps us with hunts and…well, we don't kill him."

"But he still kills," She said, "He's still dangerous."

Nott shrugged and said nothing. She gritted her teeth.

"And this werewolf," She said, "he's obviously protected—and loved—by Sirius, yet you're trying to kill them, but you're letting Riddle live."

"Hermione, we—" He started to explain. Hermione cut him off.

"No, you can't pick and—" She stopped herself—because she's supposed to be open-minded damn it—and gestured with her hand while she said, "Nevermind. Continue."

"We…Malfoy and I, we don't call the shots. Dumbledore does. He tells us who to kill and we do."

"Why?" She asked.

"It's our job," He said, "And its an important job, and someone has to do it."

"But what if whoever your hunting isn't evil?" She stressed, "What if they don't want to hurt anyone?"

He took a slow sip of his coffee, trying to collect his thoughts or formulate a response or even delay his answer, before setting it back on the table and saying, "They don't always get to choose what they are. But we don't get to choose either."

She didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything.

"Malfoy's pissed," Nott told her after a moment, "I didn't mention I was seeing you because I'm pretty sure he'd show up and punch you."

"Why?" She asked, scrunching up her nose.

"Because of Harry." He said simply. Her face fell, staring down into her coffee which she still hadn't drank—what a waste of £2—and felt suddenly very desolate.

"Is Harry very upset?" She asked.

"I don't know," He admitted, "I don't talk to him."

She knew he must be. _She_ was upset. And she was upset of course because everything she had thought to be resolute and absolute and unquestionable fact was suddenly conjecture and maybes and what-ifs. She hated those kinds of thoughts. She liked answers, she liked knowing what was happening—she didn't like being stuck in some in-between state where she didn't know what was true and was wasn't. But she was also upset because this was the closest thing to a fight her and Harry'd had in…years.

"Don't tell him you met with me." She begged. Nott's expression didn't change, but he waited for her to elaborate. "I just…I'm trying to figure this out. I'm trying to see his side, I just…if he's right, then I'll go to him immediately and tell him what an arsehole I am and beg for his mercy, but—" She paused. "If you're all wrong…and this really is insanity…then he needs help, and—I'm not trying to say that he's crazy, but maybe just mislead and—if he's right, then he's right, but if not, I can't just let him go on thinking—"

"I understand," Nott cut in.

"I'm just trying to do—"

"You're trying to do what's right for your friend." He assured her. "I won't mention it."

She nodded.

"But Hermione?" Nott called quietly, "Don't go after Riddle to try and figure things out."

She hadn't actually considered it. Hermione may be a bit reckless at times but she wasn't a complete idiot. Sh knew Riddle was dangerous—and yes, he would have a whole lot of answers, but she wasn't willing to face him now, not when she still had no idea about his species or his abilities or—anything, really.

Her plan was actually entirely different, but she figured Nott might not appreciate her actual plan any more than he would her approaching Riddle.

"I won't," She told him, and she meant it. She wouldn't be looking for Riddle

She would be looking for Sirius Black—to get to that werewolf before they did.

—

Meeting with Sirius black was more awkward than she imagined.

Especially because the first thing he did was greet her kindly, invite her in, make her tea, sit down with her—all perfectly lovely and kind as Sirius always was to her since he met her with Harry. And then the first thing she did was blurt, "I want to talk about your werewolf." Like a damn fool.

"My—" He blinked, looking suddenly very cold, and she hadn't realized Sirius Black could ever look like that, "I don't know what you—"

"No, of course not," She breathed, "That came out completely wrong. I meant…I wanted to ask about the werewolf that you know."

He watched her very closely and very carefully, without any of the warmth he had regarded her with before. "You're here for Harry's…friends."

"No," She answered, "No, I'm here despite them, actually."

"Right," He muttered, obviously not believing her.

"I just…" She tried to find the words to explain herself to him. "I'm new to all of this, and I'm trying to figure out…I'll just ask; do you think they're dangerous?"

"Who?" He asked.

"The…werewolf." She answered lamely.

"Yes, of course I do," He replied, sounding oddly robotic, "And I'm doing everything in my power to find him,"

She hadn't realized it until now—but Sirius was the first person she had spoken to regarding this who didn't refer to a werewolf as 'it.'

"Obviously that's a lie," She said. He looked ready to defend himself so she hurried on, "You're lying about where he might be, you're protecting him—I don't really care, unless he's dangerous! That's why I'm asking, I'm just trying to figure out—"

"He's not," He told her, "Not if I'm…with him."

"And are you?" She asked, "Do you stay with him?"

"Of course not, I don't know where he is."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," She mumbled, "I don't care where he is!" That was a bit of a lie, but given all the lying he was doing, she felt justified to a small one, "I don't care what he is! But the fact of the matter is about two weeks ago I had no idea any of this…I had _convinced_ myself none of it is real. And now my best friend and his boyfriend and—some other guy—they're all hunting these things and Harry is back to talking about how a vampire killed his parents and I—I don't want to believe that my best friend is clinically insane if he isn't, and I—I can't figure this out on my own!"

It was very quiet for a long time after her little rant, and Sirius black sat across from her, his dark eyes fixed so strongly on her that she had to struggle not to fidget under his gaze. The silence nearly drove her insane.

"He isn't dangerous," He finally said, "He didn't ask to be this way."

She took a deep, calming breath and exhaled slowly before responding. "what happens on the full moon?"

"He…changes." He said.

"Changes what? Mood? Personality?"

He gave her a slightly confused and almost withering look. "Changes forms, Hermione."

She blinked. "Right." She would never get used to this.

"He becomes an animal," He had been a bit glassy-eyed, like he was thinking about it very deeply, before he snapped out of it, rushing on to say, "But it's manageable if I'm there. I can lock him away somewhere and we scatter wolfsbane outside the door—"

"Does that keep him in?" She asked.

"Nah, but…as long as nothing rouses his senses outside of the room he's in, it just makes it so…as far as his wolf-brain can tell, there's nothing outside that door but a whole lot of shit—they hate wolfsbane, you know?—so it just makes it so that…he's more content to stay in there. He's not trying to get out so much."

"And if he gets out?" she asked hesitantly. To her surprise, Sirius grinned.

"Well, I have my ways of handling him," He told her. His expression fell very quickly, though. "James used to help…before…"

"What happened to them?" She asked. "Police said normal homicide, but Harry said—"

"Harry was right." He told her. "It was a vampire. They let it in and…"

"Why didn't Harry die?" She asked after a deep, calming breath. This whole conversation was equal parts enlightening and panicking. All those years she had let Harry believe he was insane, all those years she had gone on believing none of this existed and—it was becoming more illogical for her to _not_ believe in it.

"Lily broke out of her trance long enough to chuck him out the window," He gave a bitter smile, "They lived in a flat above a pretty populated street, not too face up, so…he was alright, in the end."

"How do you know this?"

"Because I was there," He choked, and seeing that he was close to tears nearly brought her there as well, "I just stood there and watched it all—I let it happen. And it didn't kill me because of—-they don't like the taste of—my—" He ran a hand over his face, "I just—"

"I've met a vampire before," She told him, her voice shaking and her eyes watery but not quite at the point of crying. The words felt foreign in her mouth, like she shouldn't be saying them as truth. "They can make you do anything they want you to do. It's not your fault."

"I know," He sighed, "I know, but…" He ran his hands through his shaggy hair before dropping them into his lap and leaning back in his seat. "They all thought I killed them. I was exonerated, but even then…Harry believed me because he was there, you believed me because Harry did, and then I had—"

He cut himself off, like he had said too much.

"It's Remus, isn't it?" She asked, remembering the name though she had never met the man himself. Sirius looked away from her. "Remus is the werewolf."

"Remus is dead," He told her. And she realized then that the hunters didn't know who the werewolf was yet. They knew the Sirius had contact with them—possibly even saw Sirius with the werewolf himself under the full moon—but they didn't know who he _was_. They probably didn't care who, only what, and where.

"Alright," She agreed, letting him lie because she knew what it could mean if anyone knew the truth. She didn't want Remus dead because he was innocent, but she also wanted him alive because Sirius deserved someone who knew the truth. "Okay."

"Do you believe it, then?" He asked, a bit more lighthearted than his previous tone, but still weighed down by the topics of their previous conversation. Hermione didn't know how to answer. "Harry has mentioned how adamant you were about…well, all of this."

"He thinks," She replied, "That I think he's crazy."

"And do you?"

"No," She denied immediately, "Of course not. I just thought…maybe he didn't understand, maybe his…understanding of what happened was…warped, or—"

"So, you thought he was crazy?" He clarified, raising a single eyebrows at her denials.

She sighed, "Maybe," she admitted, "Maybe a little. It doesn't matter, now, though, does it? He's right, isn't he?"

Sirius leaned forward to meet her eyes as he said, "He is. But not about Remus."

"I think he would know that," She admitted, "But he's just so desperate for anyone to believe him, and with Malfoy's influence…Sometimes it's hard to know if Harry's right or—"

"He is." And his tone was so filled with conviction that she knew he believed in him with every once of himself.

She only wished it was enough.

—

Hermione spent the next day mostly contemplating. The endless back and forth in her mind was nearly bringing her to the breaking point, but…she couldn't simply stop thinking about it. Not now, after everything she had been told. After everything she had found out.

So monsters were real. And a vampire killed Harry's family. And Sirius's best friend was a werewolf. And Sirius was something, too, though she didn't know exactly what. And Malfoy and Nott hunted these things. Fine. Alright. Those were the supposed _facts_.

But _what if_ —

What if they were all crazy? It was unlikely, but then it was also unlikely that vampires were real, and here she was, being told they were real. What if this was all part of some grand…hallucination or something? What if this was a reaction to a drug? Or a collective…

Oh god, she didn't know, but every time she thought she might be ready to call Harry and tell him she's sorry and he's right and please, please, please speak to her again—she started thinking. What if she was wrong? What if they were both wrong, and she was encouraging him? What if he set his sights on some innocent man that he insanely believed to be a vampire and he killed him and he went to jail and Hermione could have _stopped_ this if she just—

She didn't want to risk being wrong. She needed absolute proof that any of this was real.

So she found Remus Lupin.

It wasn't hard, in the end. Not when she knew that the goal was to keep him out of populated ares, and she knew where Sirius used to travel to every few weeks back when her and Harry used to visit frequently, and—well, she just knew Sirius, and she wasn't blinded by his ridiculous "tips" on where Remus might be that evening.

She knew that they would go somewhere secluded, and where was more secluded than the childhood home of Remus Lupin that Sirius used to visit every few weeks—probably every month if she had ever bothered counting.

She knew why it was so vital that Nott and Malfoy and Harry never knew that it was Remus Lupin they were after, because he was painfully easy to find. But, because of her, they knew now that Sirius was protecting the werewolf. How long until they find out who, and where, he is?

She only hoped, standing in front of the cottage and knocking on the door on the day of the full moon, that they hadn't found him first.

They hadn't, she discovered, as a tall, slim, kind looking man answered the door, with three diagonal scars across his face like claw marks. "Um—" He obviously hadn't been expecting her.

"I'm Hermione Granger," She told him, "Are you Remus Lupin?"

He clenched his jaw, looking like he wasn't sure if he would have to fight her or not. He didn't look like he particularly wanted to fight her anyway.

"Is Sirius here?" She asked.

He shook his head.

"Right, this is—I didn't think this through." She admitted, shifting on her feet, ""I'm not—I'm just a friend of—well, of Sirius, but mostly Harry—" His expression seemed to soften a bit, "And, well—I know about tonight, and—I'm—"

"Where is Sirius?" He asked. She frowned in response.

"Is he usually here by now?" She asked. He nodded. "He might…well, you know, hunters are after you…" He sighed and turned form the door—and she figures his survival instincts must not be that high if he's letting her in when he doesn't know who she is. "You…trust me? Just like that?" She asked.

"I would know if you're lying," He said, "Especially since tonight is…my senses are pretty strong."

"Oh," She said. "Well, I…I think Sirius is okay, but they might be questioning him—they have reason to believe he's been lying to them."

"Will they hurt him?" He asked. She wasn't sure, so she didn't answer. "Will he get here before the full moon?" He asked in reply to her silence. She bit her lip and still didn't answer. He looked distraught.

"I can help," She offered.

"Thanks, but…" He hesitated, "I mean, if I got free, I don't think you could do much…especially with…" He gestured to her awkwardly and she had no idea what he meant.

"What?" She asked.

"Your…scent."

"My scent?" She echoed.

"I don't know, your…blood, it's…different, and I…"

She realized, suddenly, what he meant. In her investigations she had nearly forgotten about the change in her blood. "Oh I'm so sorry, I—are you—are you aroused?"

He sputtered, " _No_! No I'm not, it's just…distracting. Why would I be _aroused_?"

"Well it's pheromones," She explained, standing awkwardly in the doorway as she had yet to come in. "Sex hormones. I injected them—"

" _Why_?" He asked, looking equal parts disgusted and curious.

"I was trying to replicate…well, vampire's abilities to…it's complicated." She finished. His brow furrowed for a moment before he quietly approached her and gestured for her to come inside. She did, and he shut the door behind her and sat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, inviting her to sit as well.

"Tell me," He prompted, as if he was truly interested—or perhaps he only wanted a distraction from thinking about tonight or about Sirius—so she sat across from him and did just that.

"I met a vampire," She explained, "And I tried to replicate the way he could control me. I figured it was pheromones—and I was right—but…I accidentally hooked it to my blood instead of where pheromones usually come from, so—its a bit useless, really."

"It's brilliant," He told her. She smiled, pleasantly surprised.

"Do you think so?" She asked.

"Yes," He assured her, "Incredibly _stupid_ , as well," She scowled, "But brilliant. How does it effect the vampire?"

"I don't know," She admitted, "I haven't been around him since I've done it, so…I'm not sure."

"Well, considering how it effects me—"

"How does it effect you?" She asked excitedly. "What do you feel like?"

"Not aroused," He told her, "Don't worry, but I'm gay, so I don't know if—"

"I don't think sexual attraction really matters given the intense effect of the pheromones—"

"Well, I'm not aroused," He said again, "But…it is a bit distracting. Like…I can smell it, and I can't…it makes my head a bit foggy." He paused, thoughtful, "It would probably be worse if you were bleeding—then I could smell it more. I wouldn't recommend testing it, though, not while my control is a bit…well, it's not a good idea."

"Are you a scientist?" She asked him, only wondering because of the way he seems to enjoy the conversation so much.

"Biologist," He told her, "But gave that up for literature, in the end."

"I'd love to study literature when I'm old," At his affronted look, she laughed and clarified, "Not that you're old! I just…I love literature, too." She paused. "I'm a chemist, though. Mostly."

"Ugh," He groaned, "I hate chemistry."

"Do you?" She prompted, and he hummed an affirmative.

"I was always rubbish at it. And there was this prick who always ended up in my classes, too, Snape—"

"Severus Snape?" She clarified.

"Yeah, you know him?"

"I work with him." She said, "And he _is_ a prick."

Remus wasn't laughing though, instead looking a bit concerned. "Be careful around him," He told her.

"Why?" She knew Snape could certainly be cruel, but he wasn't exactly a threat.

"He's a vampire," He told her, and she suddenly realized why Snape had been avoiding her so desperately recently. "He's not…I mean, Lily was adamant that he was alright, but…just be careful."

"Lily?" She asked, "Harry's mom?" Remus nodded. "So…James and Lily…they were involved in all of this, too?"

"Well, James was involved with me. I mean—he helped me, with my, you know. But Lily," He chewed on his lower lip, "She was a hunter."

"But—"

"She wan't like how they are now," He assured her. "She believed that creatures could be good. Because of Snape and…me. She worked for Dumbledore, but…when her and James were killed…Dumbledore kind of lost it. He doesn't believe that…we're worth saving anymore."

"Who killed them?" She asked. "Does Harry know—"

"Grindelwald," He told her, "That's his name. A vampire who used to be a friend of Dumbledore's, but…" He shifted in his seat, "I understand why he wants me dead," He told her, "He thinks…we're all good until we inevitably kill someone. Sometimes I think like that, too." She wanted to interject, but she didn't feel she truly knew enough to say anything worthwhile. So she stayed silent. "If it weren't for Sirius, I would let them."

"You don't deserve to die." She told him.

He smiled, a bit bitterly, and said, "Yeah, I know."

She stayed, waited, hoped that Sirius would arrive and every second he wasn't there Remus became more and more antsy. After a while their conversation died, and he started pacing around the house, back and forth in the kitchen and up and down the stairs. Hermione sat mostly in the living room, watching the front door and hoping Sirius would turn up.

He didn't.

"You should go," Remus told her, "I don't know if the wolfsbane will block out your scent, and if I go crazy, I can't—"

"I will," She assured him. The sun was beginning to set, they were standing at the door to the basement where they had dumped a pile of wolfsbane flowers. He was shaking. "I'll go, but not until I lock you in and make sure everything's set."

"If Sirius doesn't get back here—"

"He will," She assured him, "If they took him in for questioning…they'll let him go soon. Information on you is useless during the full moon—they don't want…you know."

"I know." He agreed, glancing down at his cell for the night. "thank you,"

"Go," She ushered him, locking the door in precisely the way he had showed her an hour before. She spread the wolfsbane across the floor, even piled it and pushed it in the crack above the floor. She would leave—she would.

But the door would hold him long enough for her to at least _hear_ , right? At least for a moment. For proof.

She wrapped herself in one of the blankets on the couch—would that muffle the scent at all?—and waited until the moon rose.

She jumped when there was a howl.

She crept closer to the door as silently as she could, listening to the snuffling and scuffling from the basement, to the howls and barks and the crashes. He didn't come to the door, and she assumed the wolfsbane turned out to be enough to mask the scent. She figured he was right, earlier, when he said it would be worse if she was bleeding.

She wanted to see—but…that would be a death wish. However, it was an old house, and the keyhole was one of those old ones that you could press your eye against and see in through. She dropped to her knees, making sure not to upset the wolfsbane and also being careful to keep the blanket secure around her shoulders—she figured it must smell pretty heavily of werewolf, so it might mask her a little—and peered in.

And immediately drew back.

If she wanted proof this was certainly it. Because standing—hunched, really, not quite on four legs but not quite on two—by the stairs, half lit by the single glowing bulb on the ceiling, was something she had certainly never seen before.

He was massive, and hairy, and bony in a way that made it look like the bones were trying to break through the skin. She didn't see his face, cast in shadow, but she saw his teeth—sharp and elongated and—he looked nothing like Remus. He looked nothing like anything at all.

When he howled, she jumped. Her blanket slid from her shoulders to the floor and the front door slammed open.

And it wasn't Sirius at the door.

There was a plethora of people who—if the world insisted on making her life difficult—she could handle. Harry would be the best choice, because she could both grovel and try and attempt to explain that the lie that he is being fed that all creatures are evil is simply not true. If it was Nott or Malfoy, she could handle it. It would be less easy, and might result in a physical fight—especially with Malfoy—but it would be handleable.

But Tom Riddle stood at the door, and she was a bit at a loss of what to do.

"Riddle," She greeted shakily, willing herself not to glance over at the door even though she knew Tom already knew who was down there.

"Granger," He greeted tersely in response.

She drew herself to her feet. There wasn't much distance between the basement door and the front entrance, so she could see him fully regardless of the late hour. He was well met by moonlight, his skin looking a bit less terrifyingly pale and looking more luminescent. She had almost forgotten how distractingly beautiful he could be.

"I never gave you my last name," She commented.

"And I never gave you my name at all," He said with a sarcastic smile, "But it seems we've both been learning about each other."

She didn't care to know what he had learned about her. "Where's Sirius?" She demanded.

"With Malfoy." He answered curtly.

"Is he hurt?" She couldn't imagine that they would torture him, but with everything she was learning, she wouldn't necessarily be surprised if she heard that they did. Riddle's jaw ticked.

"Move, Granger," He ordered. He hadn't moved from where he had thrown the front door open—almost as if he was shocked into stillness, almost as if he hadn't known she was here. Werewolves must've had a pretty overwhelming scent if that little blanket had masked her. But it had fallen, already, which probably explained Riddle's posture—shoulders tense, hands clenched at his sides, his lips pursed tight—and the fact that he hadn't set foot in the cottage.

He could smell her. She wondered, briefly and fleetingly, if it effected him the same way it effected Remus. Like he was slightly befuddled, his mind a bit foggy. Or if it effected him like he effected her—starry-eyed and lustful, feeling like your skin is burning ever second it isn't against theirs.

She noticed, belatedly, that she wasn't feeling that way at all. A little, perhaps—he was certainly a bit distracting—but she kept her head. If she wasn't so terrified of him she might've been delighted to know that her theory had been right—that he couldn't sway her if he was distracted. She straightened her shoulders and firmly said, "No."

He looked a combination of furious and tortured—very similar to the way he had stared at her in the restaurant. It was unsettling then, but a bit scarier now that she knew what he wanted. "Hermione," He said lowly, the sound of his voice seeming to wrap around her in a way that almost prompted her to move. She glared viciously at him. "Move out of the way of the door."

As if he could hear them, Remus suddenly lurched against the door with an enormous thump. Hermione jumped violently, swearing under her breath as she heard the snarls behind the wooden barrier. "I think he smells you," She said, and then under her breath muttered, "Or me."

"Granger," He seethed, "Step away from—"

"No!" She refused, her tone petulant and almost childish.

"It will kill you—" He tried, but she only laughed.

"You're trying to appeal to my survival instinct, but trust me, I have none!" He scowled from the front door. She couldn't figure out why the hell he hadn't entered yet—all he had to do was walk up and throw her from the door—or even kill her if he wanted—yet he lingered. She understood he worried for his control, but—to this extent? "If I move, you'll kill him—I'm _not_ moving!"

"So you'll die for a monster," He goaded, having to raise his voice over the noise of Remus desperately trying to break down the door. She still didn't move. "Knowing that monster will kill you all the same—"

"If you want me to move," She snapped, "Then you can come over here and make me!"

She hadn't expected him to actually do it, rushing in as quickly as if he had been waiting for her to invite him. She had expected him to linger—to stay at the doorway because of some…strange obsession with controlling his urges or because of something else entirely that she didn't know—

She didn't have time to think on it, though, because he was shoving her to the side, and she reached for him—to stop him, to distract him, something—her hand settled on the bare skin of his throat and the contact was _violent._

His hand, quick as a flash, wrapped around her forearm in a bruising grip but he didn't pull her away. In a moment that was jarring only because she had never seen him as anything other than perfectly controlled, he turned his head and pressed his nose against the inside of her wrist, breathing in the scent of her skin, leaning in so his mouth was pressed against her pulse point as he exhaled against her arm, his breath shuddering, his fingers digging into her arm to the point where she thought he might break it.

She was going to die, she realized. Finally at the point where she could go to Harry and tell him she believed him and she could support him and help him and—and now she was going to die. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, deafening her, and she was hardly aware of the banging against the basement door anymore—it was all _him_. The feel of his hand, his breath, the sight of him—eyes shut, mouth parted, eyebrows pinched together like he was caught somewhere between ecstasy and discontent. She figured her immunity to his charms only went so far, because now, enveloped in his scent and his presence—she could only think that this might not be such a terrible way to die.

He had fangs, now, she noticed, when he curled his lip and drew another breath in deep through his nose. He was breathing haggardly, not quite like he couldn't catch his breath, but more like he was trying to inhale as much as he could, like he wanted to breathe her in. She marveled at him for a moment, not for his beauty or the way he made her head all foggy, but at the way he stopped himself. At his control. At the way he didn't bite even when she knew he wanted to. His shoulders shook and his lower lip dragged up her arm to her wrist, leaving a trail of saliva and pressing his mouth but not his teeth against her pulse. The heel of her palm was pressed against his cheekbone now—entirely of his own doing—and she pressed more firmly, angling his face to look at her.

He let her, and his eyes met hers. "That's good," She praised him, her breath shaking, and she knows that he isn't holding himself back for her sake or for anyone else's sake but his own, just to know he _can_. She remembers Theo's words, that he prides himself on his self-control, and she knows this is a test—just to see if he can do it. Just to make sure that he can stop himself. Just to know that he isn't a slave to baser urges. She knows it isn't for her but she's thankful all the same.

He draws her in, envelops her, acting the same with her throat as he had with her wrist, pressing his mouth against her pulse point but refusing to sink in his teeth. She thinks that he's probably getting a bit too adventurous, testing his restraint—it is her life on the line, here—but she's distracted, both by lust and by purely non-sexual observations. Of course she's distracted by his breath on her throat, and his body pressed against hers. But she's also a bit surprised, because—she can feel every part of him against her, and she's a bit excited to feel that he's every bit as aroused as she is.

She had never likened the phrase blood-lust to anything other than murderous insanity, but perhaps this was the reason for such a phrase. It made sense—sex hormones traced her blood stream—but she hadn't had any conclusive evidence until now. It was stupid to be thinking of something like that minutes before her inevitable death but—hey, this was her coping mechanism.

She's brought back to reality quite firmly when she looked over Tom's shoulder and saw the breaking wood of the door and thought—if she dies, then Remus probably dies, too. "That's enough," She says, pulling at her arm which he still has a death grip on and using her free hand to push at his shoulder. He reacts immediately, almost on instinct, his grip tightening—if that were possible—and his other arm wrapping securely around her. "Riddle—"

He swore against her throat, his voice low and rough and rumbling, "Stop," He ordered her, and at first she thought he meant stop squirming, but he made some tortured sound against her neck when her heart rate increased, and she realized he meant her heartbeat.

"You have to step away from me," She begged, watching the wood crack on the door and a pair of claws begin to poke through. "You'll lose control and you'll be no different from any other _mindless_ monster who can't control themselves—"

"Stop," He seethed again, and she didn't know if he meant her heartbeat or her ragged breathing or her squirming or her rambling—but she couldn't really stop any of it if he didn't get away from her, and Remus was glaring through the breaks in the door with glowing yellow eyes, and she thought—if he hurt her, he would never forgive himself. And with Riddle here, he might not even live long enough to regret anything at all—

The door broke, and Remus tore through, and that was when Riddle finally pulled away form her.

Remus was distracted at first by the flowers that burned at the pads of his feet, distracted long enough for Tom to rush forward, seizing the werewolf by the throat and throw him like a rag doll. "Stop!" Hermione tried to order, and Riddle shoulders seized, his head turning almost imperceptibly toward her. Remus lunged at him, then, his teeth sinking into Riddle's abdomen and tossing him across the room. He went through the window, falling outside of the house, and Hermione was left pressed against the wall as the werewolf sped past her to tackle its main target.

She didn't know what to do—she was only human, she had no special abilities or invincibilities. All she could do was distract Riddle for perhaps a moment before she was dead and he would be back to trying to kill a man who didn't deserve it, and—

She couldn't stand there and do _nothing._ She couldn't stand there and—

She picked up a letter opener from the table on the way out the front door, locating Tom and Remus in the light of the moon as Tom held one of Remus's legs down and kicked it. She heard the snap of bone and his pained howl.

"Hey!" She called, and Tom's head snapped toward her while Remus pulled uselessly at his leg. Hermione held up her hand and sliced open her palm with the letter opener.

Riddle's grip went slack—she knew because Remus slipped his broken leg from his grasp and started limping toward the forest, away from the vampire who stayed half crouched on the grassy floor by the wood. He didn't look at her anymore, his eyes fixed on the ground as if he was willing himself to ignore the scent of her blood that was dripping down her fingers down to her feet. He shook his head, pressing his hand against his mouth and stood, turning toward the forest.

Remus was gone, somewhere hidden in the forest—he tucked tail and ran, and she'd be damned if she was going to let this man hunt him down and kill him. And if she died—well, at least she would die knowing she was saving someone else.

She ran toward him, her unwounded hand weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck to press his mouth against her wrist. He didn't fight her, his tongue meeting the skin of her wrist and drawing up over her palm, his mouth pressing desperately against the cut. She turned to the woods. She couldn't see any trace of the werewolf from before.

She supposed his fight or flight instincts finally warned him to flee.

Tom pulled her close, one hand tangling through her hair to drag it off her neck and pull her head to the side. His teeth sank into the flesh of her throat. And it hurt—it hurt so intensely that she felt the pain clear to her bones. Tears sprung to her eyes, her mouth falling open to form the cries that never sounded, her hands gripping his shoulders simply for the sake of having something to hold on to. And after a moment—a long moment—the pain faded.

Well, everything faded. Or it blurred. Everything started to feel fuzzy, she was light-headed an dizzy and a bit high on the feeling of his tongue lapping at her neck. It was messy, she realized, feeling the blood dripping down onto her shirt, staining his white oxford, and the way he would sometimes dip down to drag his tongue across her collarbone. His hand that wasn't puling at her hair pressed against he small of her back, holding her flush agains him, so she could feel every rumble in his chest, every haggard intake of oxygen, every moan and every obscene gesture of his tongue against her throat.

If she was in the right state of mind she might've been appalled by just how much she liked this—her stomach twisted into knots, the desperate noises he made, and when she moved against him, her hips bucked against his, and she felt his teeth press against her throat, like he was going to sink his teeth in again, and—

There was a loud bang and suddenly Tom's lips were gone, and so were his hands. She watched his body crumble in front of her, her mouth gaping and her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Her knees gave in and she collapsed to the ground, too. She looked up—and Sirius Black was holding a smoking gun, glaring down at the motionless body.

She looked back at Riddle.

"He's not dead," Sirius told her.

"I—I know," She gasped, "Well, I didn't know, but I assumed."

"Are you alright?" He asked. She tried to get her thoughts straight but found it exceedingly difficult. She wondered how much blood she had lost.

"I'm fine," She answered numbly, blinking back tears, wiping her cheeks when she realizes she had been crying. She thought she would die. "Remus, he…he's in the woods. He escaped, I tried to help, but Tom—" Her voice cracked. Sirius nodded.

"I'll find him."

"He's hurt," She said, "Tom broke his leg." Sirius sneered, lifting the gun to shoot him in the head again. Hermione jumped and yelped. "Sirius!" She scolded.

"He deserved it," He said flippantly, "You should go. Can you stand?" She did, shakily. "I'll stick around here for a few minutes, give you time to get to the train station and get back into London."

"You and Remus—will you—?"

"We'll be fine," He assured her, smiling tiredly, "I think we'll get out of here in the morning. We were going to wait until things died down, but…I think it's time. Maybe we'll go to Australia."

She nodded breathlessly, her mouth twitching into a frown, "Remus is a good man," She told him, "He doesn't deserve this."

"No, he doesn't." Sirius agreed. "Believe me, I'd love to talk, but we're a bit pressed for time—"

"Right, right," She agreed, "I'll—I'll go." She didn't move, though. She hesitated. "I'll tell Harry," She promised him, and at his confused and slightly apprehensive expression, she clarified, "I'll tell Harry he's wrong about Remus. He'll understand."

He swallowed thickly, nodding. He pulled off his scarf, wrapping it around her throat. "Go," He said.

She did. She ran all the way to the train station, bought her ticket home and collapsed into the seat.

—

The first thing she did when she got to her flat was call Harry.

"I believe you," Was the first thing she said when he picked up the phone (after the seventh call). "About everything—your parents, werewolves, vampires, Tom Riddle, Malfoy and Nott and—everything, I'm so sorry I made you feel like—I'm sorry that I—"

"Mione, Mione!" He cut her off, "It's…where are you? Are you alright?"

She wasn't entirely alright, to be perfectly honest, but she wasn't entirely not alright either. She was a bit scatterbrained, to be honest, from blood loss and natural exhaustion from the events of the day. And she wasn't alright, because she had almost died, but she was alright, because she hadn't. Because she had saved Remus, or at least saved him for now, and Sirius, too.

So she said, "Yes, I'm…I'm alright, but…A lot has happened and—"

"I'm coming over,"

"Harry you don't have to—"

He did. He was at her flat in less than ten minutes and she told him everything—absolutely everything she knew. For once there were no barriers, their conversation didn't consist of avoiding certain topics and dancing around particular issues—she told him everything that she had been told, everything she had learned, everything she believed now.

Except for Tom Riddle, at first. She thought it best to save that for the end.

"Hermione," Harry said after she explained everything, "I didn't…I didn't expect you to—You didn't have to change—"

"Yes I did," She said, "You're not crazy. What you saw…it happened. And…I shouldn't have assumed that you were wrong. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt earlier—it's just…No one else thinks like you Harry—they think like me! Or…almost like me. I'm pretty sure most normal people…they aren't surrounded by all of this…stuff."

He laughed a bit bitterly and said, "Well, you're not exactly normal, Mione." She smiled. "Especially with the blood thing—we still need to talk about that by the way."

She fidgeted with the scarf around her neck. "That's actually what I want to talk about next." She said. He narrowed his eyes, pulling himself up so he was no longer lounging on her couch but was now sitting up at full attention.

"What?" He asked apprehensively.

She wasn't sure how to say it. She took a breath to begin but the words died in her throat once, twice, three times. Finally she heaved a deep sigh, pulling the scarf from her neck and exposing the sore part of her throat.

She had cleaned the blood—and she was right, it had been very messy—but the bruise remained. It was objectively as pretty as it was obscene, yellow and blue and purple and green, like water color paint all blotted together. Harry furrowed his brow looking at it.

"What kind of hickey is that?" He asked her, dumbfounded. She sighed, grumbling under her breath, scooting closer to him on the couch so he could see it. She knew when he spotted the two puncture wounds at the center, because his whole body tensed. "Holy shit." He muttered.

"It's alright," She soothed, "The bite is relatively harmless—"

"It's not bloody alright, Hermione!" Harry cut in, not angry, but worried, his hand raising to examine the bruise but stopping, hovering above the discoloration, worried he'd hurt her. "Shit." He swore again.

"No, it's not alright," She agreed, "But I'm alright. I'm not dead. Considering everything…that's a positive."

"What happened?" He asked.

"Tom Riddle found Remus—so did I. We…well, I finally figured out the effect my blood has on him."

"What is it?" He asked eagerly. She hesitated.

"He…" She wasn't sure it was a good idea to depict exactly who strongly it effected him, so she chose her words very carefully, "It inhibits his control," She said, "He can't even stand next to me without—"

"Is that how it happened?" He asked, like he could tell she was leaving information out. "He just got too close and lost it?"

"No, not exactly, " She admitted, "Remus was…I may have…pushed Riddle, in order to let Remus get away." She held up her cut hand as an example and Harry looked extremely exasperated with her. "I helped him." She stressed, "I helped Remus. It _helped_."

He seemed half-assuaged by that fact, but it didn't stop his face falling into a worried frown. "I hunted him," He said, "I thought he was dead—I didn't even know he was—"

"Of course you didn't," Hermione soothed him, smoothing a hand across his shoulder blades, "The only experience you've had with anything supernatural has been horrible, and with Malfoy—"

"No," Harry cut in. She clenched her jaw, ready to accept some other defense of his boyfriend, but was surprised when he admitted, "Draco hates it." She watched him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate. "He's only a hunter because of his father. He hates it. He only stayed in because of me, he never…none of this is him. It's all me, I—"

"You didn't know," She assured him. "But you know now. That's what matters."

"And you know, too," He told her. She nodded.

"I better not mention this to anyone I work with or I'll get committed," She joked. Except for Snape, she thought, but she kept that thought to herself, for now.

"Should I stay?" Harry asked her, "Do you want me to?"

"No," She said, "Go back home. I'll still be here in the morning."

He nodded. "Stay inside and you'll be fine." He assured her, "Riddle can't get to you here."

"I don't know why you say that," She scoffed, "My flat is _not_ that safe."

"Trust me," He laughed. He enveloped her in a warm hug before he left. "I'm glad you believe me," He told her, "I never wanted to get angry at you, because I get it, I just—you're my best friend, and—"

"I love you, too," She told him.

She didn't sleep when he left. Despite the fact that it was nearly one in the morning and she's had a hell of a day, she didn't feel tired. She couldn't bring herself to tuck herself in between her covers and sleep—the thought just seemed too strange right now. She took a shower, and she changed. Without her long sleeves, her arms exposed, she saw now that she had dark bruises in the shape of fingers on her arm. Tentatively, she ran her fingers along the bruise. It hurt even when she barely touched it.

What an arsehole, she thought.

There was a knock at the door—Harry had only left about forty minutes ago, and it's not like it was uncommon for him to double back if he forgot to say something or if he changed his mind about leaving her alone. She thought it might be him. But she wasn't foolish, she did check through the eyehole before answering it.

It wasn't Harry, but she answered it anyway.

Tom Riddle looked exactly like he had when she left him with Sirius in that field—dirty and messy and covered in blood—mostly hers. His hands rested on either side of the doorframe, propping himself up like he couldn't quite do it on his own—either that or he just didn't want to. It could have been an intimidation tactic, she guessed, like he was boxing her in. His dark eyes met hers and she couldn't decide if he looked angry or apathetic. She clenched her jaw and glared at him with all the viciousness she could muster.

Neither spoke.

—

 **WOW WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING WHO KNOWS this was so dialogue heavy like i am so sorry**

 **anyway tom was here i guess**

 **for like 1/34284 of the chapter so HAH cool**

 **anyway why do I say anyway so much in my authors note its like every line also I have a thing for run-on sentences like I could probably have like…..a 10000 word run on sentence and I would just be like yeah this is good this is good shit right here good choice way 2 go me**

 **i need to stop why do i ramble so much here this isn't even important this is just me being a spaz shut uP**

 **THANKS FOR ALL YOUR REVIEWS! i say this all the time so you're probably like "ok cool w/e meowmers whatever u say" but like….I didn't expect this to get much attention? Only because its an AU AND ALSO A VAMPIRE AU which is kind of cliche so I was like ehhh some people will get it and will appreciate it and others will be like 'what is this trash and how is it somehow trashier than all her other trash' but i was like eh it'll be cool w/e BUT i got a lot of feedback and positive feedback for the most part which was pretty rad so THANK GYS**

 **THANK**

 **anyway I'm going to go because this authors note is so long and i need to chILL anyway please review! i like to hear what you think! about my garbage! love you all! bye!**


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing she realized, upon examining his parted lips, was that his fangs were bared.

That did not set a pleasant tone for the conversation.

"Invite me in," He demanded—practically ordered—and she grit her teeth and outright refused to respond. Invite him in?

(She felt a bit foolish upon realizing exactly why he was asking permission to enter, a bit foolish for not realizing that the reason he hadn't treaded through that doorway of Remus's cottage was because he was unable to, and a bit furious at Harry for never mentioning the fact that he could not enter without permission—otherwise she wouldn't have bloody given it to him. But she pushed those furious feelings aside because she had a half-rabid vampire to deal with)

"You couldn't have at least washed the blood off before appearing at my apartment?" She commented dryly, enjoying the way his eyes seemed to tighten at the corners and his mouth set in a straight, unamused line.

"If you invite me inside," He seethed—but also purred, and she realized he was attempting to sway her, but she assumed the blood that covered his person must be a bit too distracting for him to focus—his fingers tightened on the doorframe. "Then I can wash off the blood."

"I'm not inviting you in my flat." She told him resolutely. She glanced at his long fingers digging into the wood of the doorframe and wondered if he was strong enough to break it. She hoped not. She would have to pay for that.

"Granger," He seethed, as if he had any right to be angry while covered in blood on her doorstep, "Invite me inside." His fangs were still extended, visible when he curled his lips around his words. Was it because of the blood, she wondered? Did they protrude whenever he smelled blood? Even the dried blood along his chest and shirt—and dripping from his skull, she realized. Did he bleed, too?

Her nails dug into the polished wood of the door and—despite all her curiosities—she contemplated slamming it in his face. "Absolutely not." She intoned. "If you want more of my blood you can suck it off your shirt—"

Furiously, and unexpectedly, he tore at the shirt, grabbed the bottom and ripped it up over his head without even bothering to unbutton it. His chest was still stained with the blood of her throat, but the offending garment was tossed as far as he could throw down the hall. She couldn't help tracing the moment of the muscles in his arm as he furiously chucked the fabric away from him. Her heart jumped into her throat—it wasn't in fear of his anger, but for something a bit more shameful and a lot more dangerous—and she was certain he must've heard it.

He leaned against her door frame again, his arms settling on either side and leaning over. She tore her eyes from his bloodstained chest, meeting his eyes to glare furiously at him. Was he trying to distract her? Her heart rate sped—was he trying to seduce her?

"You should be dead," He practically growled, and then repeated it, as if the first time he said it didn't bear the meaning he wanted, "You should be dead."

"And I suppose you've come here to finish the job?" She mocked, taking confidence in the fact that he could do nothing on the other side of her doorway. He sighed deeply, heavily, dropping his head.

"If you would stop being a stubborn swot and invite me inside," He hissed at the ground, "You would know that I have come here for the exact opposite."

She hesitated, her heart skipping a beat. "What do you mean by that?"

He met her eyes. "Invite me inside."

She considered it. But his fangs were still extended, and he had done nothing to earn her trust this far. So, instead, she dropped to the floor right where she was standing, sitting criss-cross on the floor in the doorway. The stared down at her like she had lost her mind. "Sit." She told him.

He didn't.

"I'm not inviting you into my bloody flat," She snapped, "So you can either sit down and tell me what the hell you're talking about, or I can slam the door in your face. Your choice."

He sat, looking very strange, shirtless and bloodied sitting criss-cross on the other side of her doorway. He glared at her.

"Speak," She ordered. His expression darkened.

"You cannot control me," He reminded her.

"Neither can you, apparently." She mocked. His fingers, which had rested on his knees, twitched. As if he wanted to strangle her. He probably did.

"Now explain," And just to appease him so he might feel inclined to do as he was told, she added, "Please."

He hesitated, not looking withdrawn or reluctant or nervous, but looking very angry. Like whatever reason he was here, it was entirely against his own wishes.

"Your neck is bruising." He told her. She gave him a strange look.

"Yes," She agreed, "That's your doing."

"It wouldn't bruise if you were dead."

She surprised both of them when she laughed. It was obvious he hadn't meant that as a joke, but it amused her nonetheless. "I'll take the bruise, thanks."

"You should be dead." He said, and looked viciously angry when he said. "I shouldn't have bit you."

Dread settled in her stomach. "The bite doesn't turn you, though," She said, expressing it as a statement but meaning it as a question. "It's a ritual or—"

"You aren't a vampire," He assured her. "If you were, that would be simpler."

She was quiet, for a moment. "What am I, then?" She asked.

He sighed, loudly and long, and she was surprised to find that he was very dramatic. His chin angled upwards, his eyes raising to the ceiling as if cursing some god above. But, as amusing as this might've been under any other circumstances, waiting to hear what the effects of his bite might be was a bit too frightening for her to enjoy his childish theatrics.

He took a very long time to answer.

"I am…" He leaned forward, his eyes fixated on the floor. She forced herself to ignore the movement of the muscles in his abdomen. She should not be finding his bare chest so enticing while it was covered in her blood. "I am no longer able to kill you."

She frowned. "Am I immortal? Like you?" She asked.

"No," He dismissed. She couldn't help but feel relieved—she didn't want to live forever. That was an idea that always seemed extremely unappealing to her. "No, it is…more complicated than that."

"I am able to comprehend 'complicated.'" She told him with a withering look, "I have dealt with quite a lot of complicated subjects as of late, my blood being only the first—"

"Your blood?" He asked, cuttingly, his eyes fixating on her like she had something to hide. She furrowed her brow at his expression.

"Yes," She replied, "The pheromones in my—"

"You change it?" He breathed, "You orchestrated—"

"Well, surely you realized the difference in my blood from the first time you—"

"This is your fault?" He seethed, lifting himself up on his knees slightly to get as close as he could without breaching the entrance of her home. "You're the reason—"

"It is hardly my fault that you were hunting an innocent werewolf—I only did what was necessary to—"

He slammed his hand against the doorway, startling her into temporary silence. "I would have never made this mistake with anyone but you," He told her, and she eyed his violent posture with a raised eyebrow, "Because you drugged your blood—"

"Calm down," She told him.

"This entire situation is—"

"You know you can't touch me unless I allow you inside," She reminded him. His face was filled with barely restrained fury and he looked like he really did want to kill her now—only he couldn't, apparently, for reasons he had yet to explain. "So sit down. You look ridiculous."

He sat.

"Yes, I upped my pheromones in my bloodstream—the fact that its linked to my blood was an accident, but the result was generally what I wanted." He grit his teeth. "I wanted to be sure you couldn't control me anymore."

He was silent for a very long time. Then, begrudgingly, he admitted, "You succeeded."

"What do you mean you can't kill me?" She asked, resting her elbows on her knees and leaning in. He mimicked her posture.

"This doesn't usually happen," He prefaced his explanation, "Normally when a vampire bites someone, we kill them. They don't survive."

"Malfoy mentioned Bella let's you do whatever you want," She commented, "I assume he meant blood. Have you bitten her?"

"No," He replied curtly, looking ready to continued but she interrupted again.

"Then how do you drink her blood?"

"She slices her wrist," He sighed, "May I continue or would you like to interrupt again?"

"Continue what? You've yet to explain anything," She grumbled. His jaw twitched as he glared at her.

"The bite has…unfortunate side effects."

She groaned loudly, suddenly, throwing her head back to gripe, "I wish you would just get to the point instead of continually building up to—whatever."

"You're impatient." He told her.

"And you are far less articulate than I would expect you to have been." She countered.

His fingers were tapping on his knee. She wondered what confession could possibly be making him so uncomfortable. "This is unusual," He told her, "That is why I cannot find the words. I only know of one other vampire who has ever made this mistake—though I think his was a choice."

"What is the mistake?" She pressed.

"I bit you," He said. She waited, stopping herself from interrupting him and simply waiting for him to build on his confession. "And that…instigates a bond."

She felt simultaneously dreadful and…something else. Something that twisted her stomach. "A bond?" She asked.

He must've heard the speeding of her heart, because he had the nerve to roll his eyes. "Not as romantic as you think," He grumbled, "It is purely physiological."

She ignored the fact that he seemed to think she favored some sort of romantic bond with him—because she certainly didn't—and asked, "How so?"

"Similar to the way I am unable to step foot in your house," He said, "I am also unable to…"

"Drink my blood?" She clarified.

"No," He said, his voice deep, raspy, "That I still want to do," She swallowed, "But I can't drain you."

"That sounds psychological," She considered, examining the way his body stopped just short of her doorway regardless of how close he had leaned in. She hadn't realize it, but she had, too.

"Perhaps," He admitted.

"What does it feel like?" She asked.

"You'll have to be more specific,"

"The bloodlust," She clarified, noticing the way his eyes had fixed themselves on the discoloration of her neck. "Regarding me, specifically."

"Every moment I'm not tasting you is agony," He answered—shockingly honest—and she took a deep, calming breath. "The bite has exacerbated the feeling."

"And now you want me more?" She asked. She hadn't meant to word it that way, but saying it reminded her of the way he had pressed himself against her—of how much she had liked it—and she had to take a second deep, calming breath.

"I did not believe that was possible." He admitted.

"That's not an answer."

"No," He agreed, "It isn't.

"And," She swallowed, "This would happen with anyone you bit and didn't finish?" The word 'finish' felt bitter on her tongue, like she was referring to his victims as meals. She amended, "Finish killing them?"

He remained silent. His eyes had lifted from her throat and had met hers, and she found herself impressed by the intensity of his gaze. Everything about him was so all consuming—his voice, his words, his eyes, even his petulant attitude throughout most of their conversation—she felt herself drawn in by him in a way she had never experienced before. Logically, she knew it was a possibility that this was a ploy—an attempt to persuade her to let him into her house when really he just wanted to finish the job and drain her dry.

But she was a bit surprised at how desperately she wanted it to be true. For the obvious reason—survival—but also for less instinctual reasons. Some scientific, some more basic urges.

"This has never happened to me before," He admitted, "Usually when I'm drinking someone's blood I am not so unaware. I would have known if someone else was coming and I certainly would not have allowed myself to get shot in the head if I weren't…" His eyes seemed to glaze over, "Distracted."

"You mean aroused?" She clarified. He met her eyes with a withering glance, almost as if he was annoyed at the clarification, but it didn't dull the heat in his gaze. She figured if he was trying to seduce her she might've ruined the mood. "You still haven't explained how you feel," She pressed. "Like…you make me feel dizzy, sometimes. Light-headed. Like I'm in a dream and…the world around me doesn't feel tangible until you touch me."

He swallowed, looking as if he had something to say, but he didn't answer.

A bit annoyed that she divulged his effect on her and he refused to do the same, she scowled and said, "What if I bled, now?" His eyes darkened and he glared at her. "And I could observe for myself."

"Granger," He warned.

"You wouldn't be able to do anything from the other side of the door," She surmised, glancing down at the cut on her hand. She should've gotten stitches for it—instead it was scabbed over and aching and probably on the verge of infection. She met his eyes again and he looked furious.

"Don't," He told her, but she didn't listen.

She dragged her nail across the cut, wincing at the pain but satisfied to see the blood seep out of the wound again. It had healed well, considering how deep she must've cut, and she wondered if that had something to do with him or with the bite.

But, she would have to ask that later, she realized, watching his pupils dilate as he took a deep, seemingly involuntary breath through his nose.

"How do you feel?" She prompted, lifting her arm so the blood could drip slowly over her wrist and down her arm. His eyes traced the movement.

"You are a sadist," He told her, but he didn't exactly sound angry. His tone was breathy, almost reverent, his eyes fixated on the liquid seeping down her arm.

"How do you feel?" She repeated.

"Invite me in and you can find out," He promised. She considered it, again, her eyes observing the straining muscles of his arms and his shoulders—his chest and his stomach. He was tensed as if ready to pounce. And then, she supposed, he probably was—ready to pounce on her as soon as she gave the word. It was a bit thrilling, having this control. She smiled.

"Tell me how it effects you and I'll consider inviting you in." He was silent. "You're tense," She noted, "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Most would regard my kind as monsters," He rumbled, his voice so low she had to strain to hear, "Brainless beasts with no restraint, acting only on the whims of our bloodlust. I am not like that," He licks his lips, and her eyes lingered far too long on his mouth. "But you make me feel like a monster."

She faltered, lowering her hand. "I don't want to make anyone feel that way," She admitted.

His eyes met hers and his lips—which she was still fixated on—twitched at the corner in what might have passed for a smile, for a moment. "I never said I didn't like it." He purred. Her heart rate increased, and she watched the way the tendons in his neck tensed.

"So it makes you lose control?" She clarified.

"It's not an issue of control," He told her, "It's a shift in priorities."

"Priorities?" She echoed, breathlessly. He had leaned in so close she could fount his eyelashes as they fluttered against his cheek.

"You," He rasped. Her stomach clenched, her breath escaping her in a way she desperately tried to ignore.

"What would you do?" She asked, her eyes dancing along the details of his face, "If I let you in?"

A slow smile stretched across his face, his eyes meeting hers, "Hermione," He drawled, and she felt suddenly like he was the one in control, not her. "Are you asking for dirty talk?"

"That's not what I—" She tried to defend herself, but he wasn't listening.

"I want you naked," He rasped, and whatever she was going to say died in her throat. Her heart was racing as he glanced somewhere over her shoulder before continuing. "I would bend you over that couch and fuck you until you can't say anything—" His voice was a low, jagged timber that stole the breath from her lungs. "No questions, no observations—nothing but my name." She couldn't meet his eyes, instead she fixed her gaze on his abdomen and considered how desperately she wanted to touch him. She looked at the blood and tried to remind herself that it was her own, but it didn't seem to make a difference. "I want to hear you scream," He breathed, "And I want to _taste_ you." He raised his hand as if to touch her but it rested on the doorframe instead. She could scarcely breathe. "But not until you're _begging_ me for it."

She felt light-headed, dizzy, desperate for him to deliver on his promises. She couldn't recall the last time she had felt so drowned in someone's presence—and it wasn't like the first time they met. Her lust for him wasn't punctuated by foggy thoughts or confused, half-conscious fears—she felt a rush, a pressure in her stomach blooming into a warmth between her thighs, and her heart beat fretfully loud against her ribcage. She knew the feeling was dangerous, but she liked it all the same.

"You're seducing me so I'll invite you in," She guessed, her tone much breathier than she intended and her eyes still fixed on his bare chest. He smiled.

"Yes, I am," He confirmed.

"You could be lying about not being able to kill me." She said.

"I could," He agreed.

She considered, for a third time, letting him in. It was probably a bit foolish—that was an understatement—but it was very hard to think straight when he was looking at her like she was something to be devoured. Which was very much how he likely saw her, she realized, and what he wanted to do—devour her. She was starting to wonder if she wanted him to devour her, too.

Harry would be beside himself, she knew, if she let Tom in and he killed her. He would probably be beside himself if she let Tom in and he didn't kill her. Malfoy wouldn't give a shit, but he would probably be annoyed that she made the love of his life cry. She wasn't sure how Nott would feel—regretful probably, like he had failed her in some way.

But there was the temptation—as there always was—for answers. The idea that, if she gave him what he wanted and it turned out it wasn't her death, all the things she could discover out him, about her blood, about his race, about the hunters, about Harry's parents—and maybe he'd know nothing but maybe he knew everything and that possibility was far too tempting to let slip away.

And then, of course, he was sitting in front of her, shirtless, and the fact that he was covered in her blood did nothing to dissuade her want for him, and he was looking at her like he wanted to drown with her, and she could still picture everything he said he would do. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anyone before, and to think that he wanted her too only made it more difficult to resist.

Recklessly, she thought; why resist it then? "Would you like to come in?" She murmured, her eyes fixated on his lips.

He didn't answer, instead lunging forward. On instinct she leaned back, uncrossing her legs as he settled between them. His hand grabbed her arm first, lifting it and running his tongue up the line of blood on her arm until he was lapping at the wound on her hand. He moaned, his eyes fluttering shut.

"I thought you wanted me naked first," She commented breathlessly. He smiled against her palm.

"If you would have let me in when I first asked you would have been naked a long time ago," He told her. She frowned.

"Would you shut up and fuck me?" She grumbled—or, tried to grumble, really it came out much too breathless in order to be considered grumbling—and he kissed her.

She could taste her blood on his tongue like iron. She wasn't sure if she liked it, but she certainly liked the feel of his tongue gliding across the roof of her mouth, and the feel of his hand sliding under her thigh, his other hand releasing her arm to slide around her waist, his fingers spanning the small of her back to press her against him. He hadn't tried to kill her yet, and she hadn't decided if she believed him now or if he was just drawing it out.

He lifted her against him, walking in and kicking the door shut behind him to hard she was certain she heard something crack. She didn't pay it much mind, especially because he was already pulling off her shirt, his hands gliding across her back, up and down her sides and her spine, his fingers tucking under the waistline of her shorts.

She slid her hand into his hair. It was knotted and matted with dried blood but she couldn't find it in herself to care when he ran his tongue up the column of her throat, his hands slipping under her shorts to grip her bare backside. She moaned, unwrapping her legs from where they had hooked around his hips so he could slide them off. He deposited her—harshly—on the coffee table.

His mouth trailed down over her collar bone, down her sternum, until his mouth had found her breast. She had started on his belt buckle around his hips, but her fingers wouldn't obey her—her mind too distracted with his hands on her waist and his tongue at her nipple. Her head fell back, her back arching into him as another breathless moan left her. He nipped at her breast, teasingly, like a reminder, and she refocused on the task at hand. When undone she yanked at the belt until it had slid form his hips and threw it somewhere behind her.

She wasn't able to divulge him of his trousers yet because he had already drifted down to her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel as her hands found purchase on his shoulders. She was already entirely naked before him, displayed across the coffee table as if she was his meal. He dragged his teeth across her hipbones, his fangs scraping across the skin but not breaking it. Her nails dug into the skin of his shoulders.

She felt his nose trail across her inner thigh and she heard him breathe deeply through his nose. Momentarily distracted, she asked, "Does it smell like my blood at all?" Pheromones were mostly produced at her sex, after all, and she was curious to know if those she had injected herself with had ever made their way to where they were supposed to be. She felt his lips curl into something like a smile where they were pressed against her thigh.

"Yes," He said, "But your blood smells better." Any response she may have had was forgotten when his tongue met her center. She tried to buck her hips against the sensation, but his hands settled against her hipbones and pinned her harshly against the wood of the table. One of her hands wound their way through his hair and the other gripped the edge of the table for dear life, suffering delightfully under the feel of his tongue. He lapped at her the same way he had at her throat before, desperately and frantically but still so wonderfully and overwhelmingly. She tried, at first, to bite her lip and keep quiet, but every time she choked back a moan he would drag his teeth lightly over her clit until she couldn't keep quiet anymore.

One of his hands slide further down her thigh, while the other replaced his mouth at her cunt, his finger sliding inside of her and finding a rhythm, pumping in and out, curling against her. She let out a shuddering gasp when his tongue met the inside of her thigh. He certainly made her scream—or something very close to it—when he sank his teeth into the inside of her thigh.

It was strange, the juxtaposition of the pain so close to where he was administering pleasure, and she was surprised to find she really liked it. She had never had a lover before who would ever dream of hurting her—even if she asked them to—but not even a few minutes in and she's already coming undone at this man chomping into her thigh. She cried out when he added a second finger, his thumb pressing against her clit as his tongue worked on the wound on her thigh, his fingers moving quickly out and dipping back in, somehow everything she wanted but also not enough—never enough—even as she bucked her hips against his hand.

She was a moaning, writhing mess, begging for more even as she couldn't form the words. Tom turned, his cheek pressing against her thigh by the wound he had inflicted, and he groaned, "Fuck," he sucked in a shuddering breath, "I will never get enough of you,"

She didn't have any complaints when his fingers quickened their pace, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses back up her hips and over her stomach, and when she glanced down she could see his blood coated lips leaving marks almost like lipstick on her skin as he ascended, until his teeth could drag harshly over the bruise on her neck. She thought he might bite her there, too—and she likely wouldn't have complained, too pleased at the ministrations of his hand—but he didn't. Only pressed his lips against the tender flesh and dragged his lips up the column of her throat, across her jaw, so that when she came, he was able to swallow her cries with his tongue.

When she came, it was like a blinding white light behind her eyelids, overwhelming her senses so that she couldn't feel anything except for the extraordinary feeling of his fingers curling inside of her, his thumb swirling around her clit, her hips bucking recklessly into her hand. Her head flew back so harshly that it collided with the surface of the table, tearing her lips away from Tom's to catch her breath, to calm her racing heart, to come down from the high so she could feel her fingers and toes again.

There was a moment—however brief—of clarity after that. The pain of her thigh, the knowledge that what he said was probably more than a throw-away comment, the possibility that this would not be the last she saw of Tom Riddle. She decided, in that moment, that if Tom Riddle wanted to stay, she would let him. She would let him stay for as long as he could make her feel the way she just had.

"We never made it to the couch," She commented, her hand moving from where it was knotted into his hair to allow him to lift his head from the crook of her neck and meet her eyes. A very dark smirk fitted his features.

"Did you think we were done?" He asked, his voice dark and sinuous and haunting, making her stomach clench in anticipation. She yelped when—without warning—he launched her onto her sofa. She laughed when she landed—which wasn't something she usually did, laugh during sex. Sex wasn't usually this fun. Her breath hitched when his lips met hers again, her legs already parted so he could sidle between them while she refocused on relieving him of his trousers. It wasn't long before she had yanked them down over his legs, her fingers wrapping around his length. He pulled his lips away from hers, sucking in a hissing breath before his hands settled on her hips and he turned her around.

He practically threw her over the back of the couch like a rag doll, and she was left clutching at the back of the couch, his hands bruising her hips and his tongue at her shoulder. She moaned, feeling his hard length pressed against her but not inside her yet and she ground her hips back against him.

"What are you waiting for?" She whined when his hands tightened at her hips and stopped her movement. She felt his lips curl into a smile at her shoulder.

"Perhaps I just like to watch you suffer," He teased, one hand gliding around to sink a finger back into her center. She let out a breathy moan, her hands gripping the cushions against the back of the couch.

"Tom," She groaned, half angry and half needy,

"Hermione," He mocked, pressing kisses against her cheek and along her jaw before drawing her ear lobe into he mouth. He held her hips still so she couldn't grind back against him. Frustrated, she purposefully bit her lip so hard it bled—and he must've smelt it, because his finger suddenly tensed at her cunt—and she reached back to grip his neck and force his lips to hers.

It was a strange angle, pressed agains this back-to-chest, turning her head to kiss him. But it worked. He tasted the blood and suddenly he was angling himself at her entrance, sliding into her until he filled every inch, until she couldn't feel anything—not even the cushions under her fingers—nothing but him. She moaned, long and deep and groaning, as he pulled out slowly and pushed back in. One hand gripped her hip, the other with one finger pressed against her clit, unmoving. She half-sobbed at how slow he was moving.

She might've begged him for more, but before she could ask, he suddenly pushed her down so her stomach was pressed against the back of the couch. His finger began tracing circles around her clit, his hand guiding her hip so that he could drive his hips into hers, pounding into her in a way that was somehow both painful and overwhelming as well as deliciously invigorating. She cried out with each thrust, unable to even attempt to quiet herself, overtaken by the pleasure of his hands and his cock and his tongue pressed against the back of her shoulder before seeking out the bruise at her throat.

If she was in her right mind she might've worried for her neighbors, if they could hear her. But at the moment she couldn't think of anything outside Tom Riddle's deep and breathy moans against her throat as he fucked her over the back of her couch.

She felt his fangs again only a moment before they tore at her flesh—for the second time in her flat and the third time that night, she realized—and this time instead of immediately assuaging it with his tongue, first he sucked at the wound, long and hard until he released it with an obscene smack. It hurt, but counteracted with the pleasure of his cock and his fingers at her clit, she didn't mind it as much as she might've otherwise. And when his tongue finally did soothe the bite, she tipped her head back, exposing as much of her throat to him as she could, and a sigh spilled from her lips.

He pulled her upright, or as much as he could while still thrusting into her from behind, and she could feel the blood spill down her back before he caught it with his tongue, dragging his tongue up over her shoulder blade until he was latched back onto her throat. She could feel her orgasm building, coupled with the lightheaded feeling that came with him biting her throat. She felt like she was flying when she finally came, floating through empty space where they only tangible things were his mouth at her throat and his length which relentlessly pounded into her through her orgasm, sending her body convulsing around him while loud, desperate moans spilled from her lips.

When he came, he wrapped himself around her, his arms securing around her waist and his lips finally tearing away from her throat so he could press his cheek against her shoulder. He shuddered against her, letting out a deep, rumbling moan that she felt through every inch that he was pressed against her. She could scarcely breathe, panting wildly while she tried to catch her breath.

He withdrew from her just enough for her to fall completely on the couch, turning so she was laying on her back, facing him. He lounged beside her, pressed against the back of the couch, his legs tangled with hers. His arm and his head rested on the armrest, looking down at her. She reached up to wipe the blood from his lips.

"You've taken a lot of blood," She pointed out once her breath had calmed. Her hand was still at his jaw, her thumb against his lips.

"I have," He agreed, "Not too much. Though I wouldn't suggest standing just yet."

"Is it easier for you to pull away now?" She asked, sliding her hand back into his matted hair. She glanced down to see the blood was still staining his chest as well—in fact, there was more.

"After the bite, its easier," He informed her, his fingers tracing distracted patterns on her belly. "The first time is difficult to pull away—but now it isn't."

"So what am I to you?" She asked. His brow furrowed at the warning. "In regards to the bite. What am I? What would be the term?"

He frowned, his fingers halting their pleasant movement. He sighed and looked away from her. "I know some who would refer to you as a mate."

"I take it you aren't fond of the terminology?" She asked with a smile.

He scoffed, "Of course I'm not fond of the terminology."

She paused, thoughtful, her fingers trailing down his throat. "I think bond would be more appropriate." She said after a moment. "More logical. You bit me, so now we're bonded in some way that makes you instinctually want to keep me alive." Then, testing the term, she murmured, "Bonded."

He didn't say anything, just gazed down at her. She ran her fingers along the dried blood on his chest. "Is it always this messy?" She asked.

"Yes," He admitted.

"What does it feel like when you drink it?" Her eyes were fixed on his chest, smudging at the blood with her thumb.

"Like I've been starved of water for weeks and I'm finally allowed a drink," He admitted, "Every time. No matter if I've fed two days ago or an hour ago or seconds ago."

Her fingers climbed back up to his neck, tracing the blood that wasn't hers. "Do you bleed, too?"

"Yes," He said.

"So what makes you different?" She asked, "From a human? Besides the fangs—what makes you immortal? What makes you more powerful?"

His lips quirked upwards in an almost smile. "Am I you're new subject?" He asked. She frowned.

"You've been my subject since I met you in the lobby." She admitted. "I get a bit obsessed with things I don't understand. Sometimes."

The look he gave her was inscrutable. She dropped her hand and he caught it, his fingers tracing the wound on her palm. "It's healing quickly," she said.

"Our saliva quickens the healing process," He explained, and she couldn't help but scrunch her nose up.

"Like a dog?" She asked. He stared down at her with a withering look.

"Yes," He admitted, "Like a dog." He ran his thumb along the cut again. She supposed that explained why it had stopped bleeding even without stitches. "Grindelwald always said—"

The calm and pleasant atmosphere faded and her world was suddenly spinning out of control. She snapped her head to the side to meet his eyes—which looked very confused at her sudden panic—and she threw herself off the couch.

"You know Grindelwald?" She asked. She hadn't considered—he worked for Dumbledore, didn't he? He worked with the hunters so why would he know—unless he was some sort of double agent? "How do you know—"

"Hermione, lay back down," He ordered irritably, and she ignored him.

"What do you mean Girndlewald said—are you—you know him? He killed—he—how do you?" She couldn't form her sentences correctly and now suddenly black spots appeared in the corner of her eyes. Before she could resist, Tom had forced her back on the couch, making her lie down while he crouched on the ground beside her. She tried to sit back up and he forced her down.

"I'm not with Grindelwald," He explained irritably. Her heart was still racing and he rolled his eyes, "Bloody hell, you know I'm with Dumbledore."

"But I didn't know you knew Grindelwald," She spat, pushing his hand away but remaining on her back. "He killed Harry's family."

"Yes, I know."

"Harry is my best friend."

"Yes, I know." He repeated.

"How do you—"

"He turned me," He explained, pushing her down again when she tried to sit up. She clenched her jaw and glared at him. If she wasn't so lightheaded she would punch him in the face. "From human to vampire—years ago. He was with Dumbledore, then. They were bonded," He gave her a meaningful look when he used her term. It quieted her, momentarily. "But Grindelwald decided it right to kill the wrong humans and Dumbledore went on a rampage against him—"

"Are you with Dumbledore or not?" She asked, sensing the bitterness in his tone.

"I'm not with Grindelwald," He told her. "I couldn't care less about Dumbledore—he would have me killed if it weren't for the fact anyone from Grindelwald's coven is his best chance at finding him."

She bit her lip. He regarded her silently, as if waiting for her to argue more. Instead, she asked, "How old are you?"

He raised a condescending eyebrow. "I was born in 1926. I was turned when I was 24."

She did the math in her head, "You're 90." He hummed in agreement, obviously at a loss of what to say due to the change in subject. She frowned. "When you find Grindelwald what will you do?"

"Kill him." He answered simply. She wrinkled her nose.

"Why?" She asked.

He paused. His hand had begun to trace patterns on her stomach again. "Just to know I can,  
He finally said. She didn't understand it, but his tone suggested that he was revealing quite a bit more than she realized. She reached out to run her fingers through his hair, her fingers catching on the knots.

"You need a shower," She told him. His lips twitched in that almost-smile.

"I'll wait," He told her. She frowned.

"No," She said, "You're covered in blood, you should—"

"I'll wait," He said again, "So you can join me."

He pressed a kiss to her palm when she smiled.

—

The next morning saw Hermione sitting on her sofa in what might possibly be the most uncomfortable situation in her entire life

She invited Harry over to explain something very important—she even told him to bring Malfoy and Nott, because given how often she'd been interacting with them lately, it was probably best they knew too. She was never that good at keeping secrets—especially secrets that she wore on her throat.

So she was going to simply tell them everything. They would probably freak out—but she had spoken with Tom all night—well, when they weren't too busy doing something else—and the fact of the matter was she trusted him. Sort of.

She trusted that he told the truth when he said he didn't want to kill her. She trusted him when he said he wasn't loyal to Grindelwald in any way. She trusted him when he said he had just as much an interest as she did in finding him.

She didn't trust him when he said he wouldn't kill a creature that Dumbledore asked for if he believed them to be innocent, because she wasn't sure he cared either way—but at least she trusted that he might spare a couple if he believed it wouldn't bite him in the ass later.

So she wanted to tell them. If Tom Riddle was a part of her life—to the point where she would be searching for Grindelwald with him—then she needed to tell them.

That's why Malfoy and Harry were in her apartment, Malfoy with his arm slung around the back of the couch around Harry, glaring at her like a guard dog. She had invited them in and she hadn't even offered them tea—because this was Malfoy, and he would probably just insult her tea. They just sat there as she desperately tried to find the words to say—

"Where is Nott?" She asked instead of confessing.

"On his way, I'm sure," Malfoy said curtly. "What the bloody hell do you want, then?"

"Calm down, Draco," Harry sighed.

"Calm down?" He echoed, "This bint put you through shit this last week and you want me to—"

"I am sorry for that, but I have something more important to—"

"More important?" He snapped, "More—I thought you called us here to apologize!"

She rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," He pressed at her blatant disregard of his anger, "Apologize. For being an uptight, bloody-minded bitch until it finally suits you to believe in us and then finding the bloody werewolf and letting it get away—and putting yourself on Riddle's shit-list—"

"Riddle is actually what I'm here to talk about—"

"Oh it's Riddle you want to talk about?" Malfoy cooed, "Of course, let's all talk about bloody Riddle. Again. Let's ignore the fact that you interrupted an investigation—"

"Remus was innocent!" She snapped.

"It was none of your business!" Malfoy bit back. Harry rubbed at his temples and didn't even try to get in the middle of them. "What would Harry have done if that thing killed you?"

"You would have killed him then?" She asked, "Killed one of Harry's father's best friends?"

"I would have done as I was told!"

"And that's why you're a coward!"

There was a knock at the door—it must be Nott, she thought, knowing he would be on his way—and she called irritably, "Oh, just come in!" She focused back on Malfoy, "You have no right to be angry at me for interfering," She told him, "You have no right to be angry when you would have killed an innocent man!"

He didn't answer. He was staring wide eyed at the door. So was Harry. "Bloody fucking hell," Malfoy swore.

Hermione turned around and _of course_ it was Tom Bloody Riddle.

Harry immediately stood, looking ready to physically fight him, and Malfoy held him back. Hermione stood, trying to stand in Harry's line of vision so she could regain his attention. "Alright, calm down," She soothed, "It's…He's what I wanted to talk about. It's okay!"

"It's not bloody okay!" Harry snapped, "He tried to kill you!"

Hermione hesitated. "Yes we…sorted that out."

"Sorted—" Harry sputtered, glancing between Riddle and Hermione with nothing short of astoundment.

"Tom and I—"

" _Tom_?" Malfoy echoed, sounding disgusted.

"—We are…" She didn't know what the hell to say, so she changed her wording to, "We have reached an agreement."

Both men looked terribly confused.

"He has also agreed to help us search for Grindelwald outside of Dumbledore's jurisdiction."

"What?" Harry squawked, "Hermione—"

"Please, sit down." She begged. After a moment, he did. And Malfoy, after a moment longer, sat beside him. She cast a vicious glare at Tom, who was leaning against the kitchen counter knowing very well he shouldn't be here, before turning back to the other inhabitants of the flat.

She sat down, too.

"Now, Tom Riddle is not a danger to me." She assured them. They looked as if they didn't believe her—she imagined they never would, but she tried to convince them anyway. "At least, he won't kill me."

"And you know this why?" Harry asked, looking as if he was trying very hard to understand where she was coming from. "Because…what, because he told you?"

Sort of, yes, but she couldn't just tell him that. "Its complicated." She deflected, "But if he was going to kill me he certainly would have by now."

"That's your reasoning?" Malfoy asked, "He hasn't killed me yet so fuck it let's just go with it?"

"I don't expect you to believe me—"

"Well, we don't—" Malfoy started, but she pushed on.

"I just expect you to trust me." Harry looked as if he was considering it, like the fact of their friendship could sway him. Malfoy looked like he was going to explode.

"You've lost your mind." He told her. She rolled her eyes again. Harry set his hand on Draco's thigh to calm him and turned his attention on Hermione.

"Riddle was already helping find Grindelwald." He pointed out.

"He was helping Dumbledore find Grindelwald," She corrected, "Grindelwald and Dumbledore were…involved. Who knows why Dumbledore wants him back. Maybe to kill him—maybe not."

"Involved?" Harry echoed, "How?"

Hermione hesitated. She didn't want to bring up the bonding issue—she would have to explain that it happened from being bitten without dying and given that Harry knew she had been bitten, she really didn't want to get into that right now. "They were…" She trailed off, trying to think of another way to explain it.

Thoughtfully, she turned to face Tom. "Did he feed off him?" She asked.

"What?" Harry gawked.

"Yes." Tom answered, and Hermione turned back to Harry to see his face twisted in confused disgust.

"Grindelwald fed off of him" She repeated, then furrowed her brow and turned back to Tom. He raised an expectant eyebrow at her.

"Where they sexually involved?"

His expression didn't change as he answered, "How would I be subject to that information?"

She sighed, turning back to Harry. "They may have been sexually involved."

Harry rubbed his temples, looking form Hermione to Tom and back again. Malfoy still looked ready to explode, and Nott still hadn't arrived. Which was annoying only because she did not want to have to explain it all again.

"Alright," Harry agree quietly. "If you trust him, then I trust you."

"Potter, you can't honestly believe—" Malfoy started, but Harry shook his head.

"Hermione knows what she's doing." He said resolutely.

"You can leave it you want," She offered, seeing the way Malfoy was glancing between Harry, herself, and Tom who still lingered in the kitchen. "And inform Nott—since he didn't make it."

"I don't want to leave you with—" Harry started.

"I'm fine," She assured him, "I've got some garlic cloves and holy water in the kitchen." She joked. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Those don't do anything, Mione," He told her, smiling, "Wooden stakes are useless, too."

"Speaking of," She said lowly, "Why did you never think to mention that all I had to do was refuse to invite him in?"

Harry looked awfully confused, "Well—I just—why would you invite him in to begin with? It seemed a little redundant to warn you because—did you invite him in?"

She wasn't sure she wanted to admit anything yet, so she said, "It just would have been nice to know."

He smiled, "It's a bit weird knowing more than you about something, for once." He laughed when she scowled at him. Malfoy's leg was bouncing up and down as he anxiously awaited their conversation to wrap up.

"Could we get out of here now?" He asked, glaring at Riddle.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, watching Hermione's expression carefully. She smiled to put him at ease. "Let's go. We'll call Nott."

They left quietly. Tom remained in the kitchen, and she thought it was probably a bit strange that she preferred his company to her best friend's boyfriend—who was relatively harmless, considering. She approached him, glaring up at him.

"I told you not to come back until tonight," She reminded him. He smirked, his hands finding her waist as he turned them so that she was pressed against the counter.

"I was hungry," He said, fitting himself between her legs as he lifted her to sit atop the countertop.

"I think you just like to cause trouble." She said, winding her fingers through his hair. "And you took more than enough last night,"

He chuckled, leaning in to run his nose up her throat, breathing in deep. "Maybe I just wanted you," He admitted.

"You could have waited," She told him, hooking her leg around his waist to pull him closer.

"Shall I leave and come back later?" He breathed in her ear. She laughed, sighing at the feeling of his lips at her neck.

"No," She told him. His hands slid to her lower back, drawing her to the very edge of the kitchen counter so she was finally entirely pressed against him.

That was about when the door opened again.

"Sorry I'm late—so what's the news—"

Nott spotted them in the kitchen and proceeded to flounder, looking both very shocked and very uncomfortable. Hermione sighed irritably, unwinding her leg from Tom's waist and preparing herself for yet another explanation, but he stopped her.

"No," He said, and turning to Nott he spat extremely viscously, "Leave, and don't come back." Nott's eyes seemed to glaze over and he did just that. Hermione wasn't sure whether to be annoyed to pleased—she would still have to explain everything to Nott later, but Tom's lips had sought out her neck again, his finger drifting past the waistline of her trousers.

"I'll have to explain it to him sooner of later," She said.

"Later," Tom mumbled, his hand cupping her rear under her pants to grind his hips against hers. She moaned, her head falling back and her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

"Later," She agreed.

—

 **What**

 **HAH**

 **ok**

 **im so tired tbh I've recently been on this health kick right? so i cut out coffee and oh my god i did not realize caffeine withdrawals was an actual thing that happens in real life but here i am and i feel like I'm going to pass out and its not even late AND i have a headache but I REALLY wanted to get this out so like I hope its readable idk**

 **There might be hella typos and if there are please let me know I honestly didn't even read through I SHOULD WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW TO POST THIS WHEN I HAVE THE ENERGY TO PROOFREAD BUT I REALLY WANT TO POST IT NOW AND I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL**

 **anyway THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE RESPONSES HONESTLY you are all so supportive and wonderful and i love all of you very very much. I am marking this as complete because this is…i mean this is an acceptable place to end it. I might come back one day and expand a chapter or two? But atm there's a lot of little ideas that have been popping up (not my ideas people have been sending my prompts which is hella freaking cool and i want to do those) so I'm probably going to work on those.**

 **always I LOVE YOU and thanks for all your support**

 **kilubye**


	4. Chapter 4

Tom Riddle always works at night.

(For obvious reasons)

The sunlight may not cause him to spontaneously combust (he remembers Granger asking if he would combust in the sunlight—sounding strangely hopeful—and he wasn't sure whether he should be offended or intrigued by her disappointment when he tells her he doesn't) but it doesn't mean he is entirely immune to its rays. It does burn, but not in the way human fairytales suggest. It burns in very much the same way as it does any mortal, but just worse enough to make him prefer the night.

It's too exhausting and draining in the sunlight to carry out what Dumbledore asks of him anyway.

So he works at night. And despite the fact that he hates Dumbledore and he always has, he doesn't necessarily hate his job. It's exciting, it keeps him busy, it keeps him alert. Hunting has always been his favorite part of being a vampire. Because hunting came with power, it came with chase, it came with prey.

So, spending all his nights out, he had never had much need for a home, exactly. He needed a place to sleep during the day, of course, but most of the time he would only be there for a few hours at most before he was out again, meeting with Bella—because she was useful in terms of her connections but also because she is the only person he can tolerate for long periods of time—or carrying out less intensive tasks for the old coot.

But his place was kind of a dump. An overpriced, closet-sized, prison cell, if he was honest. He never cared—he had never had any material possession worth bragging about, really, and was content for the moment with the life he had. And he only needed a place to rest his head.

But he just…really liked Hermione Granger's flat.

He reasoned with himself that, since apparently he was welcome there now, it made sense to prefer it to the place he used to sleep. The fact of the matter is it was bigger, she had curtains that could block the sun better than his blinds ever could, and it smelled so good there. And she didn't even like garlic, unlike his fucking neighbor—

Well, he had killed that neighbor anyway, but the smell of garlic had a way of settling into the fucking foundation and never leaving.

And he just fucking _hated_ garlic.

There was the issue of her cat, of course, who he had the pleasure of meeting upon his first return to her flat. It was mangy and angry and annoying and for some reason it really liked him.

"Odd," She commented after he barely restrained himself from throwing the stupid thing across the room when it started kneading his thigh again and got its claws stuck in the fabric of his trousers, "Crookshanks doesn't usually take to anyone."

He didn't comment on it, because he had a feeling she wouldn't be happy with anything he had to say—especially when she scooped the scowling creature up in her arms and started making ridiculous cooing noises to the monstrous thing on her way back to her kitchen.

And other than her cat, there was her book collection. Which, if he was honest, was nothing short of impressive, and many of them (particularly the newer editions of textbooks) he had never read before, so that was particularly interesting—except, of course, for the fact that she annihilated her fucking books.

They were alight with a rainbow of highlighter, chicken scrawls all along the margins noting the text and referencing other texts, not to mention the amount of pages she had dog-eared—

He never hesitated to comment on the deplorable state of her books, which apparently she found irritating enough to 'ban' him from her bookshelf. Not that it stood, really, and he still read them, and he still complained about it. The only difference was sometimes when he made too many comments she would just take the book from him and refuse to give it back.

(He usually got it back anyway. She was fairly easy to _convince_ )

He, surprisingly easily, settled into a routine. Which wasn't unusual, he always had a routine, but his routine had never involved anyone else. Now it involved her (and her bloody cat) and her flat. It was odd, only because he was becoming increasingly accustomed to the photos on her walls and the souvenir's on her shelves and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen—all things he had never had and never wanted but now that he had them…

Admittedly, he didn't _have_ them, he was only around them. But then she said—

"I think Snape knows about you and I," She tells him once while she's preparing herself dinner. It's not quite sunset so he's spending the last few moments of sunlight in the safety of the indoors, leaning agains the counter behind her watching her cook with her cat cradled in his arms (and its not because he likes the fluffy pest, he just likes the way the cat's affection for him makes Hermione so annoyed) and her comment is just what he needs to remind himself that this isn't domestic, this isn't normal, this is— "I know you've been keeping your interactions with me from Dumbledore and I think that's a good idea, I just thought you should know that I'm almost certain Snape knows."

She knew of Snape's involvement with Dumbledore. She might not know the history of his involvement—even his involvement with her best friend's mother—but she never asked so he never breeched the subject.

"What makes you think that?" He asks, letting her cat drop and watching it dash off somewhere.

"He's been acting very strange around me, lately," She admitted, "Very…restrained?"

"Restrained from what?" He asks, his jaw twitching.

"Not my blood," She said—and she had a way of doing that, of knowing what he was asking without him asking it, and that was another thing he was growing accustomed to—she still hadn't looked up from whatever she was cooking, "He seems to have calmed considerably where that's concerned. It's just his commentary. He's usually a total arsehole but lately he's been…odd." He watched her lift her spoon from her pot and take a taste. She was handling this much calmer than he felt she truly should, considering if Snape knew he could easily tell Dumbledore. "And today a fire started—" He rose an eyebrow and she offered him a brief glance to see it, as if she already knew his expression, "And I took my sweater off to cover it and he saw the bruise on my arm and—"

He stepped forward and took her arm in his hand, extending it so he could see the mark on the inside of her upper arm, just above the crook of her elbow. He was certain Snape couldn't have mistaken it for anything other than what it was.

"I thought that he might not know it was you," She continued, "But I knew he noticed. And then before I left, he said 'be wary of him,' I can't imagine him talking about anyone else—"

"Be wary?" He echoes. He knew Snape didn't like him (Snape didn't like anyone, to be fair, but he was especially wary of Riddle, and he thinks its because he might remind him of Grindelwald—the man who killed the supposed love of his life) But he also knew Snape had always been very wary of him, himself. He didn't expect him to warn Granger off him.

"Yeah," She affirmed, tasting her dish again and turning the stove off, moving to the side to grab a bowl from her cabinet and pulling her arm away from his hands in the process. He hadn't realized he was still holding it. "I asked him what for, because there's no reason for him to be purposefully vague—" She transferred her pasta from the pot into her bowl while she spoke, "He insinuated that I 'don't understand the situation I'm putting myself in,' as if what I do is any of his business and as if he would ever care if it was anyone but you—" She was rambling a bit, and he was becoming increasingly uninterested, his eyes trailing over the photos she had stuck to her fridge, over the shopping lists, "Anyway, I think he saw the bite and he knows that I'm your bond—"

He froze, suddenly, his mind turning around the possessive pronoun, unable to focus on the meaning of her words anymore, even as she continued speaking.

"And he was trying to warn me away from you—probably not out of the goodness of his heart, but then I don't know. He seemed sincere." She moved to rinse the pan out at the sink. "At any rate, I told him that I didn't know what he was talking about and he got annoyed and dropped the subject." She placed the pan on the rack to dry, and she still hadn't looked at him regardless of what she had _said,_ so he just stared at her while she rambled—"That's such a _man_ thing to do—believe that he somehow has some responsibility over my decisions— _him_. I think I'm better equipped than he is to decide if I—"

He reaches for her, then, because its been long enough for him to recover from the shock and realize that he had been staring at her in awe since she had first called herself _his_ —"What is it?" She asks. She was looking at him for the first time that conversation, looking concerned, her eyes flitting over his features, attempting to discern what he might say.

He didn't have anything to say, though. He only wanted her to look at him. How could she so offhandedly call herself his and continue as if that isn't—

Nothing had ever been his before, he realizes. His whole life he never had anything to call his own, so he was used to the idea that nothing could be his—he grew up as an orphan, no family to call his own, he never had friends to claim ownership over. He doesn't even, really, have a life to call his own because he's technically dead. And all his life, even in the short time he had worked after the orphanage—before he was turned—he always thought that his job owned him more than he had his job. The truth of the matter was nothing had ever been his so much as he had belonged to something else.

Until her.

And all these things that surrounded her—her home, her walls lined with photographs, those quiet afternoons surrounded by atrociously inked pages in bent and tea-stained textbooks—weren't they, by some extension, his as well? This routine he had adapted, this life he had assimilated into in these past weeks, these days of near domesticity where he could fall asleep and wake to the smell of coffee in the kitchen and the smell of _her_.

"What?" She asked again, looking caught between concerned and irritated. But there was nothing to say, so he trailed his hand up her arm to her neck and he kissed her.

Kissing her was always overwhelming—and the fact that he kissed her often did nothing to curb its effect. It was overwhelming in the way feeding always had been, or maybe in the way killing was. All-consuming and entrancing and drowning. Just like the stimulation of his senses when blood was spilling over his lips or when he was tearing the head off a vampire or ripping the heart out of a harpy, the way his skin would thrum and he would feel the rush clear to his fingertips. Kissing Hermione was like that—close enough to breathe her in and hold her in his lungs, his fingertips tingling as they trailed down her throat, slipped under her shirt and spanned the heated flesh of her back—kissing her was an unfathomable rush.

And he could kiss her whenever he wanted. Because she was _his_.

"My supper," She protested as he moved from her mouth across her jaw.

"Can wait." He finished, his teeth catching her earlobe, dragging down the column of her throat.

"So I can't have supper until _you_ have?" She quipped irritably, but in contrast to her tone her hands had already found their way under his shirt, her nails digging into his sides. He slid his hands down to her bare thighs and hoisted her onto the counter, stepping between her legs.

"Shall I wait?" He asked. Her hands pressed at his lower back, pulling him closer. "Perhaps you'd like to put on a film, too?" He slid his hands under the waistband of her sleep shorts—the first thing she did whenever she came home from work was change into pajamas—and she pulled her hands back so she could rest them behind her to lift her hips off the counter. He let them fall to the floor. "Take a bath?" His nose bumped against hers, hips lips a breath away from her own, and he smoothed his palm up her stomach until he reached her breast. "Annihilate another one of your books?" He brushed over her nipple with his thumb and she arched against his hold.

"Oh, don't start that again," She groaned, and he could just see the corners of her lips pull up in a smile. He let it stay, his lips falling back against her throat, tongue and teeth tracing downward. She raised her hands again, gripping at his waist and pulling him closer still, her legs hooking around his hips and grinding, and in response his teeth sank just the barest—

"No," She said, her hands quickly rising to his chest and pushing him back—barely. "Not my throat. It's supposed to be warm this week and you're not going to have me wearing a scarf during what may be the only summer weather London has to offer this year." He couldn't help the way his mouth angled upward at her tone—she was lecturing him. He raised his head so that his lips claimed hers again, nipping at her lower lip.

"Say it again," He asked her, his hand trailing down to dip in between her legs. She didn't know what he meant, so she didn't say anything, instead wrapping her arms around his shoulders and tossing her head back when he dragged his finger up her slit. And he liked the gasps and the whimpers that tumbled past her lips but it wasn't what he asked for, so he clarified, "Tell me you're mine again."

She met his eyes, looking a cross between confused and awed. She took a moment to respond, her hands dragging through his hair and meeting at the back of his neck, her eyes jumping between his eyes and drifting down to his mouth. When he slid his finger inside her she met his eyes again, her lips parting to allow a breathy groan. "Call yourself mine again," He murmured, enjoying the way her fingers were gripping his shoulders, enjoying the way she didn't pull her eyes away from his.

"Am I?" She breathed, and the stutter of her heart nearly undid him. "Yours?" She had that expression she usually donned when she discovered something—when she was examining him or some other experiment she had interested herself in. Like she hadn't quite considered being his, had merely accepted it as a role without ever questioning it, accepting it as one may accept any other indisputable fact of their character. And it made him question, too—

Was he hers?

A lifetime of being owned without ever owning anything—owned by the orphanage, owned by his job, owned by Grindelwald, owned by his bloodlust—he had come to accept ownership as it came. And though he wasn't the type to lie in subjugation and allow himself to be controlled, he was also not one to rashly retaliate against those who would claim him. So he drifted through owner to owner—whether he be owned by society or by subject—quietly building an alternative life, a life of power, a life where he owned himself—

Had he somehow, seamlessly, found himself under new ownership? A possession of Hermione Granger's. He found that he didn't feel so powerless under her hands. He didn't feel trapped under the weight of a will other than his own, and he wondered if it might be possible to have her in the same way she might have him. Slaves to each other.

It didn't anger him, funnily enough. He thought this revelation might come with resentment, but listening to the impatient flutter of her heart in her chest, he could feel little other than enthrallment. And he thought that if he was hers—and that assumption was coupled with the assumption that she was his as well—then he did not find it particularly repulsive.

So he didn't press the issue, He didn't make her voice what he already knew to be true—what she had already voiced without even meaning to—and instead, knowing her throat was off limits, dropped to his knees and sank his teeth into the innermost part of her thigh without warning.

She didn't argue, or squeak or scream or jump, but moaned, deep and slow and sure, the leg that he wasn't preoccupied with resting over his shoulder and puling him closer, closer still. Her hands had left him, falling behind her to support her as she fell back against the wall, her head tilted back in wanton ecstasy. He might have savored the image longer if it weren't for the fact that her blood was already pouring and he found himself a bit too distracted by the taste and smell of her to concentrate on her reactions. But he remained thrilled at how reactive she was, moaning and groaning at the feeling of his teeth ripping into her flesh. And when he had his fill and his tongue met her center her climax was instantaneous—already brought to the edge by the feeling of his teeth on her thigh alone. He wondered at how she might feel, how she might think on how desperately and willingly she comes for a monster. Sometimes he thinks she would let him devour her if he could, and she didn't need to be influenced, she didn't need to be swayed, she didn't need to be forced—

He hoped he had ruined her. Watching her hand come up to grip the edge of the wall that marked the entrance to the kitchen when he finally sank himself into her, watching the way her nails dug into the plaster, using it as leverage to press her hips into his, he hoped she knew she could never have this again, not with anyone else—not with anyone but him.

And if that meant that he could have this with no one but her, he was content with the thought.

In the aftermath, he watched the way he expression shifted from blissful confusion to something a bit more awake, and her eyes focused on his mouth. He expected the kiss—and allowed it—but hadn't expected to see the blood staining her lips when she pulled away. He was caught a bit off guard by the image of her, flashing him a grin with her blood smeared across her mouth. He even let her push him away so she could hop down from the counter, move to get her bowl of pasta and make her way to the couch to eat. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and her lips were clean again.

He wished she hadn't. The blood suited her.

—

Tom Riddle was a complete, utter asshole most of the time if she was being perfectly honest.

And she didn't necessarily mind the company in her flat, especially because from sunrise to anywhere between 3-5 hours later, he would be asleep. And it was surprisingly humanizing—even if he wasn't at all human—to see him asleep on her couch, her cat snuggled into his side if he had managed.

And that was another thing—her cat liked him. That was strange in and of itself, because Crookshanks usually hid from guests, and if he did turn up (entirely on accident, usually when he was trying to sneak into the kitchen for food) he would be exceedingly violent and vicious. But with Tom he was practically a lap cat. But then they have a lot in common, Crookshanks and Tom. Both sleep in the mornings and always come back after they leave and count on her for food.

Also both are violent and cranky.

And Tom is certainly violent and cranky. He has a fantastic temper, she realizes, on one of the many occasions where their 'friendly' discussion over the state of her books erupts into an all out fight over something entirely unrelated like…whether it would be ethical to own a slave if they _wanted_ to be your slave, which was a ridiculous argument in the first place but apparently she was just condescending enough throughout the fight to warrant him flipping her goddamn coffee table.

Nothing broke, exactly. He did tip the bowl of potpourri that she had been given as a gift when she had first moved to the flat and which she just left on the table for years. Anyway, she threatened to never invite him into her flat again if he didn't clean it up so he did, but that certainly didn't deter him from being exceedingly rough with her when she conceded to sex.

That last part wasn't quite a complaint, however, because she found that the rougher he was, the more she liked it. And he wasn't rough all the time—there was a certain amount of pain no matter what because he never had sex with her without feeding as well, and she especially liked that part—but there were times where, while not exactly a sweet, gentle darling, he wasn't as vicious as he could sometimes be. Sometimes their time together could be categorized as domestic, like any normal couple that actually lived together and might even be engaged or married. Sometimes it felt a bit like that.

When he wasn't complaining or something. And _shit_ did he complain.

He complained about her cat, about her books, about her couch—even though he was welcome on the bed, but apparently her sheets were 'atrocious' and 'covered in cat hair'—he complained about her friends, especially if he can still 'smell' harry and god forbid he smell Theo or he just loses his goddamn mind.

He's a bit childish, sometimes. And from what he's revealed to her—which is very little—she's not sure she can completely blame him. He mentioned Grindelwald finding him at the orphanage, and while he doesn't talk about it, and she doesn't ask him, its through the way he says the word— _orphanage_ —filled with so much disdain that she knows it must've been an awful place to spend a childhood. He has that same tone when he says Dumbledore's name, but never Grindelwald. She doesn't know why.

It's not an excuse for his behavior, this apparently awful childhood that she knows nothing about, but it is an explanation. It's an explanation for a lot, really.

There's a knock at the door, interrupting her thoughts. It's late, almost 10, and Tom had left over an hour ago once the sun set. She hadn't expected anyone, so when she approaches the door and peeks through the peephole and sees Harry standing there, she flinches so violently she smacks her head against the door on accident.

"Mione?" He calls, hearing the thud.

"One second!" She replies, hurrying back to her bedroom to fetch a pair of leggings, puling her sleep shorts off and pulling those on instead. Harry might have tentatively approved of Tom Riddle's involvement in their lives, but she really didn't need to subject him to seeing all the wounds she allowed him to inflict upon her. The fabric of the running leggings chafed uncomfortably against the bite on her thigh but she ignored it, hurrying back to the front door and pulling it open. Harry smiled at her when she answered, pulling her in for a kiss on the cheek.

"Harry," She greeted, "I didn't know you were coming by."

"I know, I usually call," He replied apologetically, "This was kind of last minute, I hope you weren't settling into bed or—?"

Hermione laughed, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him, "Please, as if I would go to sleep any time before three o'clock in the morning."

Harry laughed as well, "Right," He agreed, "Right. Draco's out of town for a mission or something—and you know, since I'm technically still 'in training' I don't go for missions outside of London."

"Do you want tea?" She asked.

"I would love some, yeah," He agreed following her into the kitchen. She put the kettle on and opened the fridge to pull out some milk as he continued, "I thought it might be a good time to get together with you and catch you up on what's happened—you know, with the Grindelwald situation and…is that blood?"

Hermione slammed her head on the inside of her fridge trying to stand up, and finally surfaced over the open door with one hand on the milk and the other cradling the back of her head. "what?" She asked, following his age to the counter where—

Damn it, she thought she cleaned that up. But sure enough, her blood streaked along the side of the countertop.

"Oh," She said, setting the milk down and grabbing her dish towel, wiping at the blood and ensuring she actually wiped it all up this time. "Yeah. Oops. Thought I cleaned that." She went back to the sink to rinse the cloth off. "So, what did you want to catch me up on?"

"Honestly there isn't much," He admitted, and she was glad to know he didn't see the blood issue as worth pressing, "Mostly I wanted to bounce some ideas off of you."

The water was boiling, so she pulled down two mugs and plopped a tea back in each one, pouring the water over it. She fetched the sugar while waiting for it to brew. "Shoot," She said.

"I know you said Dumbledore might want something else with Grindelwald," He said, "Because they were involved before. I may have…breeched the subject with him."

She shot him a look. "That's dangerous." She said, but then she knew she had no real leg to stand on talking about what's dangerous, so she didn't lecture him.

"I know," He agreed, "But I ask him those kind of questions all the time—he won't suspect anything of it. He knows I want Grindelwald dead—thats the primary reason I started training to work for him in the first place, so…" He watched her unscrew the cap of the milk carton, pausing to collect his thoughts. "Anyway, you were right, Grindelwald did feed off of him. Dumbledore was his mate."

She handed him his tea, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of her own. "He's being honest, then," She murmured against the rim of her mug, "But if they're bonded, and Grindelwald can't kill him, would he really be interested in killing Grindelwald?"

"Well, it's not quite…what do you know about mates? For vampires?"

She hesitated. "I know what Tom's told me," She said.

"Well…Grindelwald can still kill him," He didn't notice the way Hermione tensed, "He can't…drain him, for lack of a better word, but there isn't necessarily anything stopping him from, say, pushing him off a roof or…shooting him or something." Hermione took a calming sip of her tea.

"What about the bond, though?" She asked.

"Well—mating for vampires isn't like, inherently romantic or—they don't have to have a bond, necessarily." He explained, taking a slow sip of his tea, completely ignorant to Hermione's rising anxiety, "I mean, Snape and my mom were technically mates—"

"What?" She cut in, not meaning to interrupt but genuinely confused, "But your dad—"

"Yeah, that's the thing," He agreed, "It wasn't romantic, it was just…they'd been friends forever, and when he turned, she let him…" He shuddered at the wording but otherwise didn't pause in his explanation, "feed on her, but they weren't involved. Mating for vampires is more for the purpose of survival than…procreation, I mean, they can't procreate, so sexual compatibility is irrelevant in a mate."

Hermione turned her mug in her hands. "So their sexual involvement was irrespective of their bond—or, mate…" She trailed off, her mind going in circles a bit. She had assumed that what she experienced with Tom—the pleasure from the bite, the attraction—had been mostly to do with the bond, but apparently that wasn't quite correct. She wasn't sure how she felt, knowing that the way she felt when he touched her was an entirely natural reaction, not due to any supernatural bond or—

"Did he talk about his intentions with Grindelwald, then?" She asked, "Regardless of…?" She wasn't even sure how to refer to it now. Bond had been appropriate when she thought it was the same as her feeling with Tom, but if it was different—perhaps it wasn't. They were sexually involved, whether it was because of the bond or not, but if this feeling wasn't intrinsic with the bite, then she couldn't be sure if it was the same.

"He said he doesn't want him to be a danger anymore," He answered, "I asked him what that means. But…he didn't really…he changed the subject." He shrugged, "I didn't want to push lest he think I don't trust him."

"You do trust him, though," She pointed out.

"I shouldn't." He replied, but he didn't deny it. "He never would have mentioned knowing Grindelwald intimately. I knew they were close, but…this is different. This is like…if Malfoy killed you—I…I would want him dead, but—" He sighed tiredly, "Dumbledore and his organization I mean…they're the first who offered me a chance to understand what happened to me, and to try and ensure it doesn't happen to anyone else. I just…it's hard to believe that he might…" He didn't finish his thought. Hermione set her tea down to grasp his arm.

"It's like you said," She told him, "If it were you and Malfoy, it would be complicated. It wouldn't change your morals completely, but…" She struggled to find the words, squeezing his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner, "It doesn't mean Dumbledore's entire organization is flawed—even though there certainly are flaws—" She couldn't help herself to that dig, she disagreed too strongly with their 'shoot first ask questions later' mentality, "—It just means that if you want Grindelwald to pay, it might not be with Dumbledore's help."

He nodded, but otherwise didn't respond. So she asked, "Anything else you've learned about him?"

He shrugged, "He has a type." He commented offhandedly. Hermione's head snapped up so suddenly she thought she might've given herself whiplash for a second.

"What's his type?" She asked.

"Honestly, it's kind of creepy," He told her, "He goes for red-heads though. He has ever since…well, he killed my parents, and Dumbledore—well, whatever happened between him and Dumbledore. And, you know, Dumbledore used to be a red-head, so in the victims that we've found that Snape or Riddle are able to pinpoint as Grindelwald's, which are few, they're always red-haired."

Hermione was pensively silent, but her eyes were wide and her fingers were drumming on the counter. "If I show you something do you promise not to worry?" She asked him.

He hesitated, watching her closely, "Why would I worry?"

"You might think I'm obsessive." She explained. He laughed uncertainly.

"I already know you're obsessive." He said. She paused, then picked up her tea and gestured for him to follow her into the bathroom attached to her bedroom. She hesitated at the door for only a moment, before she opened it and switched the light on.

And maybe she _was_ a bit obsessive, but she had taped articles and pictures and reports of any suspicious murder or missing person report in Europe that she suspected to be Grindelwald. It wasn't terribly difficult, but it was extensive research. Victims that disappeared at night, when the sun was away. She didn't include those who went missing at bars, because according to Tom, drunk victims tasted horrendous, and she was certain that the man who turned him must've felt the same. And Tom—who could offer a lot of information if she caught him in a good mood, and especially if she could bring her thoughts together when they were going to have sex—had even divulged Grindelwalds usual types of hunting grounds.

It still took up her entire bathroom mirror and even extended to her wall. Tom hadn't seen it, not because she was actively hiding it but because he never used her bathroom. But he had gone over each possible victim with her and told her if he believed it was plausible or not. There was only so much he could tell her when he didn't have a body, but he would give an honest opinion regardless.

"I've been trying to track him, sort of." She said, "Tom's been helping a bit, just with whatever information he already knows—like what countries Grindelwald wouldn't go to, so I wouldn't waste my time with them, along with his usual places to find victims and…if he usually goes for red heads…" She began pulling articles and photographs down, tossing them to the floor and rearranging them into groups according to time and location. Harry was avidly reading the papers and post-its.

"Hermione this is…" He didn't finish he thought, and she paused.

"I know," She said, "It's a bit over the top. I just thought…if we could establish some sort of pattern it might be easier to find him. I know his victims are rarely found, so I've been focusing on missing persons, but there's been a couple here and there where the bodies are—"

"This is incredible." He said. She stopped talking.

"Is it?" She asked.

"Yes," He said, "I mean, it's _definitely_ obsessive, but," She frowned at that, "I remember this girl," He points to one from mid-February in Southeast London, "Riddle said it was definitely Grindelwald. Said he could smell him all over her—we fond her relatively soon after her death, it was a pretty sloppy kill on Grindelwald's part."

"He could smell him on her?" She echoed, her fingers grazing over the photograph of the girl that had appeared in the paper.

"Apparently the bite leaves a scent, or something." She frowned. That explained Snape's behavior. "But what's this from recently?"

"Well, there's a lot recently," She said, "He must have at least one victim a day, so I've focused on areas that have an influx of missing persons, rather than just anyone that goes missing anywhere. It makes it a bit tougher because we can't pinpoint anything until he's been there a few days, but…" She pointed to May, "Just last month in Dublin there was a spike in missing persons, even if I take away those who aren't red-headed—"

"You said Riddle helped with this?" He asked her.

"A little," She admitted, "Well, a lot. With the premise. Not the research or the construction, but with the information so I knew where to look."

"Even with the recent stuff?" He clarified. She looked at him oddly.

"Yes." She answered.

"So you've seen him recently?" He pressed. She nodded, not sure where he was going with this line of questioning. "I haven't seen him since he showed up in your flat."

She paused. "That's odd," She admitted, because it was. She had seen him every day, and while she knew their situation was certainly different than his situation with Harry and Malfoy and Theo, she still expected him to be in contact with him.

"Even on missions or…?" She clarified. He shook his head.

"We used to cross paths a lot, but recently, no…" He admitted, "I wonder if he knows about these possible victims in Ireland…"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, "I usually ask if I'm right, if it sounds like it could be Grindelwald…So he has to be aware."

Harry pursed his lips. "Not like we could all take a group trip to Ireland without Grindelwald becoming suspicious, anyway." He admitted.

"Right." She agreed, "Still…You'd think he would speak to you."

He shrugged, "Dumbledore probably keeps a close eye on him."

Hermione nodded, glancing over the victims from the end of May. Grindelwald would likely still be in Ireland for another week or so, if his pattern persists. She wondered if someone would go out there, soon.

She wondered where Tom was. She didn't wonder often—she knew the type of job he lead, knew the amount of creatures he killed, so she didn't think on it often. But she wondered now. Perhaps his offer to help find Grindelwald outside of Dumbledore's eye only extended to helping her?

She bit her lip, and Harry pointed to another article from the end of May. Hermione pushed the thought of Tom Riddle from her mind, for the moment.

—

"You realize I have a show to put on?" Beatrix asks, dressed to the nines and fishing through the drawers of her vanity as he stands in her doorway.

"I have no intention of keeping you from your adoring fans," He intones, "You are not usually so happy for me to leave."

"And you are not usually so _boring_ ," She fired back, pulling out an envelope and sashaying to meet him at the door, handing it to him, "But your human pet has made you so _tame_."

He ignored the comment, knowing she said it in an attempt to rile him. "You realize you are human, too." He points out.

"No thanks to you." She smirks.

"You would make a terrible vampire," He says, opening the envelope and pulling out photographs, "You have no impulse control."

She laughs, deep and slow, and agrees. She holds out her hand, "I believe I am being paid for this."

He reaches into his back pocket and hands her the money Dumbledore had give him to pay her with. "This is him, then?" He asks, "The man who apparently has been attempting to build an army?"

"He's pretty bad at it," She admits, counting the money he had given her, "He has no control over his newbies. Pathetic, really. Parents these days."

He hums in agreement, thumbing through the pictures, then turns his attention to the personal details she had included. "You do have a way of digging up dirt on people," He comments lowly, a useless observation. She smiles, tapping her temple once.

"Psychic," She whispered, almost conspiratorially, and he raises an unamused eyebrow. "Shame you have to kill all the strays." She says, looking down at the photographs.

"What else would we do with them?" He asked, "Are you in the market for a pet?"

She laughs again, waking back to her vanity to place the money in the drawer, "Seems to me you have more use for them than I do." She said, turning to lean against the vanity and raising a dark brow back at him. "An army sounds useful."

"Newborns are impossible to control." He tells her dismissively, pocketing the photographs and details.

"If you say so," she drawls, "But if you do train one, I would _love_ a new pet, thank you."

He rolls his eyes but she doesn't see, because he's already leaving. He winds through the backstage and leaves through the exit door that leads to the back alley. He has his target—thanks to Bella—Quirinus Quirrell, who didn't look quite as dangerous as his actions might've inferred. Setting out countless newborns into the London streets, one would picture him either intimidating or insane, but he only looked nervous in the photographs.

Anyway, he had his personal details. He whipped out his phone and sent the pictures of the photographs to his new target's number, then called Potter.

"Riddle?" He answered, sounding extremely confused.

"I need you to trace a number for me. He'll call me in a few minutes, and my contact at the police is currently in the hospital."

"Hospital?" Potter echoed, "How did he get into the hospital?"

"I understand you are trying to insinuate I sent him there," He said tiredly. Potter cleared his throat. "I didn't. His own stupidity sent him there. Can you trace the number or not."

"Yeah, yeah I can, I'll call my friend—" Tom pulled the phone away from his ear to send him the number, so he didn't hear whatever else he was trying to say until he pressed the phone back to his ear. "I was with Hermione," Potter said, which gave Tom the briefest pause, "I wanted to ask—"

"I'm going to hang up." He said, "Trace that number now."

"Wait—"

He hung up. He had already gotten a text from Quirrell— _who is this?_ it read. He could practically hear the panic. Rolling his eyes as the number then popped up on his 'calling' screen, he let it ring for a moment before answering. "Wh-Who are you?" He sputtered as soon as Tom answered, trying to sound unaffected.

"An ally," Tom replied. He had been walking down the street but he paused, pocketing his hand that wasn't using the phone, "This is Quirrell, is it not?"

"Wh-Who are you?" He repeated, this time with only a bit more confidence.

"I told you," Tom said.

"What kind of a-ally takes pictures of me in secret and—and sends them to me as a—as a threat? How did you get my number?"

"Oh, do stop panicking," Tom drawled, his eyes drawn up to the stars. "If I wanted you dead I certainly could have killed you when I was taking those pictures." A lie, certainly, because he hadn't taken the pictures, but he found that line did wonders when dealing with timid targets.

"You can't kill me—"

"I can kill you." Tom assured. "I could rip your head from your body, set you on fire. Throw you in an incinerator and make sure you're reduced to ashes. Or I could simply slice your head off and bury it—not quite death but incapacitation. I could crack open your skull and take a hand blender to—"

"S-Stop!" Quirrell said, "You—You're a hunter, aren't you?"

"Stupid question," He said, not quite answering, "Hunters tend to shoot first and ask questions later. I would certainly not be calling you if I were a hunter. Besides, I told you I was an ally." He pulled the phone away to see how long he'd been on the call. Only a minute—best to stay on longer.

"Then what do you want?" He demanded. Tom thought he might have heard something in the background of the call—someone else in the room?—but he didn't pay it too much attention.

"I am curious," He started, genuine for the first time in the conversation, "What's the point? What purpose could a dozen newborns serve?"

There was a moment of quiet, before Quirrell finally said, "I'll meet you." Tom sighed and rolled his eyes—that's not what he had asked. "I don't want to talk about this on the phone. You could be lying. I want to meet you in person." Tom pinched the bridge of nice nose. "Know that…if you are a hunter, I'll be ready. I'll kill you—and my newborns will—"

"Your newborns have already escaped and died, I killed them." He cut in. "And I already told you that I'm not a hunter." Most would probably consider that a lie, but this paranoid bastard wouldn't believe him no matter what he say, so he didn't care how blatant his lies were anymore.

"If you—you aren't a hunter then why—why did you kill them?" He stuttered, apparently unnerved at Tom's confession to killing this he turned.

"If you controlled them, I wouldn't need to kill them." He said flatly. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he saw they had spoken for nearly two minutes. It might be wise to stay on longer, but he was growing tired of the conversation, so when he pressed the phone to his ear again—and Quirrell was speaking, though he had no idea what he was saying—he said, "I'll be in touch." And hung up.

Just when he thinks a target might be interesting and they turn out just as ridiculous as all the others.

He calls Potter back promptly, strolling down the street again, "Riddle, _Jesus_ , a little warning next time you need a call—"

"Did you trace it or not, Potter?" He asked.

"Well, yeah," Potter spat, "Ron traced it, the location of his call was from Stoke Newington, you—"

Tom hung up.

—

An abandoned warehouse. How cliche.

He could smell him—Quirrell, the only other vampire in the immediate area—and he could smell a lot of blood, which—objectively—was probably a bad sign. He followed the scent inside, stepping carefully up a fire escape and slipping in through one of the countless broken windows. It reeked of blood and rot, so he could only imagine what kind of horror house this crazy cunt was running.

This was the boring part. Finding them—especially when they were so obvious. The fun part was killing them, usually.

It was on the second floor he found him, bent over a limp body, and—chanting? praying? Tom wasn't sure—so Tom leaned against the wall and watched, waiting for him to be finished. He wasn't feeding, he realized after a moment. He was, in fact, feeding them.

Another newborn, Tom realized with a tired sigh. He hadn't smelled them because the scent of blood in the room was so strong—it was everywhere.

Quirrell heard him, and jerked around violently, his eyes widening when he saw Tom watching him tiredly from his place against the wall. Quirrell sprung to his feet. "Who—"

"Another?" Tom asked, "Were the first twelve not enough?"

The man in question froze. "You—you were on the phone—"

"Very astute," He mocked, "Is he chained?" He pocketed his hands and lifted himself off the wall in order to lean forward to see past Quirrell, "Oh, you must be joking. Iron chains?" Quirrell looked affronted, "No wonder they all break free," Tom murmured to himself.

"he has food here," He said, gesturing to the blood—hospital bags of blood,, all stacked on top of each other in the corner. Tom sneered.

"That's not enough to satisfy," He told him, "And you're—feeding him? Like a child? I suppose they don't obey you either."

Quirrell looked rather confused. "Sh—should they?"

Tom rolled his eyes. This was supposed to be fun but he was only annoyed. The body on the floor was coming to, probably half exhausted and half rabid from no fresh blood, and it fixed its eyes on him. Quirrell didn't pay it notice.

"This is mildly disappointing," Tom said, "And here I thought you were interesting."

"I'm trying—" He cut himself off, finding his words as Tom raised an eyebrow and waited. One last chance to interest him, he supposed. "I know I'm not a true master—"

"You created them," Tom told him, "You are their master."

"No," Quirrell mumbled, "No it doesn't work that way—"

"You control them," Tom told him, strolling forward to the man on the floor, "But not through feeding them like a child." The man on the ground growled at him, so Tom seized him by his back of his neck and slammed his face into the concrete, his knee resting at his back. Quirrell flinched.

"What are you—"

"He won't obey me, as I'm not his master—" He started, "He might even try to kill me, given the state he's in." The man squirmed on the ground, growling and yelling but not quite conscious enough to form words or demands. Pitiful. Turned and fed like a baby until he is nothing but a rabid, bloodthirsty mess who can't even feed himself. This is why they're escaping, killing the first person they can find and leaving bloody, mangled remains. Held here with nothing but rusty iron chains.

Pathetic.

"He can't kill you, though," Tom murmured, his lips curling up into a sneer without his consent. "No matter how much he may wish to. It's the natural order of things." He dug his knee into the man's spine with more intensity and the newborn groaned and thrashed under his hold. "Master always wins."

Quirrell was silent. Pensive. Watching the newborn on the ground with newfound interest. "What do I do?" He asked, "To stop them from going feral?"

There was a moment of silence. Tom Riddle was still watching the newborn, pensive. He couldn't kill Quirrell, but he could kill Tom—or at least, he could try. This nameless man, writhing on the concrete floor, soaked in blood—if he were stronger, he could kill Tom.

He could kill anyone he wanted if he was more than a snarling mess on the floor.

"Nothing." Tom finally answered. Quirrell blanched.

"There surely is a way," He pleaded, "If you and I are not rabid, then there must be something—"

"That's not what I meant." Tom said. And he didn't even really relish in the confused look on Quirrell's face before he pulled his silver knife and stood, the newborn finally allowed to flip on its back. Quirrell only had a moment for his features to shift to horror before Tom's blade sank into his eye socket, and the man fell lifeless to the floor.

The newborn jumped him from behind, and Tom swore, reaching back and gripping the crazed thing by its shoulder and swinging it off, kicking it hard in the stomach after it hit the floor. It, he—whatever he called it, or him. It looked more like a creature than a man at the moment, if Tom was being honest. It snarled and reached for him, so Tom grabbed Quirrell by the arm and dragged him far enough away that the newborn could only strain against its chains.

It wasn't a protective gesture, Tom knew. It was territorial. He cast a quiet glance over to the newborn, before sliding his knife out of Quirrell's eye and slicing his head off instead, hacking the knife through the flesh of his throat. When it was separated, he picked up the head by the top of his turban and threw it about a three feet away from the body.

He fetched lighter fluid from his car, and returned to see the newborn still straining against the chains. He drenched what once was Quirrell in the lighter fluid, and lit the match, but paused before he dropped it.

He put out the match. He looked over to the squirming thing and decided he had an apartment that he didn't use, so it was worth the experiment.

'Worth the experiment' he sounded like Hermione.

He went back to the newborn and pressed him into the ground again—it wasn't hard, as weak as the thing was. It squirmed, so he lifted its head and bashed it hard into the concrete. It whimpered. He turned its head to see its headless master, "I killed your master," He told it, "Do you see?" He fisted his hand in its hair and bashed its head into the ground once more, "I am your master now. Do you understand?" The thing growled at him, and Tom pressed his bloody knife against the side of its face. It was still squirming, and he knew it would continue to do so, even if it did accept him as its master. So he shoved the knife into its eye socket so it went still.

He would leave that in there until he got to his flat. Hopefully that would keep it down so he didn't have to deal with it yet.

He hoisted the thing over his shoulder and as he passed by Quirrell, lit a match and dropped it. He watched the body burst into flames, waited until it was reduced to ash before he continued on his way.

He fished chains out of his trunk—silver, the kind that would actually work to hold back a vampire, even a newborn—and when he returned to his building, he carried the body up to his flat, chained it up, and pulled the knife from its eye.

"You'll need blood," He murmured, watching as the thing started to wake. It saw him and jerked, but it was still disoriented and underfed, so it didn't do much else in its new surroundings.

Tom's phone rang.

"Yes?" He answered, keeping his eyes on the creature.

"Tom." A familiar voice answered. Tom clenched his jaw.

"I caught Quirrell." He told him, "And I paid Bella for her part."

"Excellent," The old man said, "How did you find him?"

"Tracked his number," He replied, watching as the thing finally realized it was chained and began to struggle, but tom had wrapped the damn thing up in them so it couldn't make too much noise.

"How?" He asked.

"Potter." He responded simply, running the silver of his knife along the side of the newborn's face and watching the way it stilled. It remembered the knife, then. Probably remembered Tom hacking off Quirrell's head with it.

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment. When he finally did respond, he said, "Are you often in contact with Harry Potter?"

It was an odd question, because whether Tom was in contact with Harry Potter or not was irrelevant, but he answered regardless. "Our paths cross at times," He answered, "He was the most convenient to call at the time."

Dumbledore took another moment to respond. "I understand," He finally said, "But I would prefer that, should your paths cross again, you are careful what you divulge to him. He is only just involved in all this."

Tom snorted to himself, "The next time Potter and I meet for a coffee I will make sure not to air yours and Grindelwald's dirty laundry," He promised.

"Good." Dumbledore intoned. He didn't dismiss Tom, so he waited, wondering what he might have to say. For a moment he was mildly nervous, remembering Hermione's suspicions of Snape's knowledge of them. The last thing he wanted was for Dumbledore to know.

The newborn gave a jerk and Tom sliced into its cheek to silence it before Dumbledore heard something.

"That is all I needed." Dumbledore finally says. Tom doesn't say goodbye, just hangs up and tilts his head, examining the creature on the floor. It's different now, in this atmosphere. Not surrounded by stale hospital blood, watching two vampires fighting in front of it—its calm. It's even terrified.

"You're mine now," He tells it, a thrill running through him, "Remember that."

It stared at him with wide, black eyes.

—

 **Wow I'm a piece of shit I'm so sorry**

 **BUT IM BACK IM ALIVE**

 **Literally remember when I said I completed this and that was a bold-faced lie? ? ? ? yeah I'm a mess this is spiraling out of control but its fine I love it**

 **Obviously (or maybe not obviously considering i am me) this isn't the last chapter either! Tom is planning something, Bellatrix is making more of an appearance (because i love her and you will be seeing more of her) also Ron was mentioned…he might show up soon. He probably will. Who knows. This is me as soon as I commit to something I change my mind so? ? ? who knows?**

 **Anyway the little bb vampire (aka a grown ass man who is now a new born vampire whom I'm still choosing to refer to as a baby) does have an identity he won't be 'it' forever that's just Tom being an asshole but yeah that'll come later**

 **Anyway! yeah! hope this was interesting idk man and maybe not a shit show like I wrote this so many different ways tbh and every time i was like wow….this terrible hhahhaa AND FINALLY I WRITE SOMETHING THAT ISNT TERRIBLE so you know…thats exciting for me**

 **ANYWAY enough of my shitting on myself HOPE YOU ENJOYED I want to thank you guys so so so so much for your support honestly like all the favs and reviews and the SHARES ADN RECOMMENDATIONS ON TUMBLR LIKE ! HONESTLY YOU ARE ALL SUCH ANGELS the other day someone wait let me look up their name because ok faun-spots on tumblr made this THING FOR EXCITANT AND LIKE I S2G I NEARLY SHI TMY PANTS LIKE? ? ? HM ? ? ? UM? ? EXCUSE ME? it was incredible i couldn't believe it like oh my GOD**

 **but also just all the support in general y'all are so nice….its funny because like this ship is so fucked up tbh but everyone's so lovely and nice….we're just nice lil bbs with fucked up kinks i think idk I'm not here to kink shame anyone i literally had to talk myself out of writing a scene for this where Hermione was on her period I was like u know what…thats a bit too far**

 **anyway this author note is turning into a goddamn novel so i LOVE YOU and hope this was like a little not bad and also please review i love you a lot also check out faun-spots she's a BABE ok for real still shitting my pants over that edit wtF damn it ok**

 **for real I'm leaving now ok ending this see you next chapter will it be a day? will it be a month? who knows actually i know it wont be a day i have an essay that I'm still procrastinating on so yeah**

 **ffs k time for me to leave can you tell I'm excited for finishing this? does it show by my weird emotional breakdown rn? probably ok bye**

 **PLEASE REVIEW**

 **(also as always I'm totally cool with you letting me know if you see a typo because i always go back and fix it)**


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